


The Body Thief

by Russ (Quasar)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, First Times, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jim gets shot, he has a chance to explore his feminine side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Body Thief

## The Body Thief

by Russet McMillan

Author's webpage: <http://users.apo.nmsu.edu/~mcmillan/stories.html>

* * *

Notes: This story is for Sue and Duranee, who have certainly waited long enough. Thanks to them for their patience, and to Paulette for her beta-reading and excellent advice. This story doesn't occur at any particular time within the series, but for those who like everything in its place, this could be taken as being near the end of a low-angst version of third season. 

"The Tale of the Body Thief" by Anne Rice is a really cool book \-- the only one of the Vampire series that I really got into. It has some delightful homoeroticism right up there in the text -- not stuffed way down in the subtext. Alas, the homoerotic desire is unrequited (mostly), but it's still a good book. 

**THE BODY THIEF**

Out of the darkness, a great flash. A deafening boom that smacked against the eardrums. 

Shouts and running feet. Sharp cracks from small arms fire. 

The patter of fat droplets as a new rainstorm arrived. A man lying in a pool of blood under a streetlight as others come to bend over him. 

Dispassionately, I watched the scene in the ambulance. They had let the patient's partner ride along, mostly as another set of hands to keep pressure on wounds. That was a pity, I thought vaguely; the poor guy didn't deserve to witness this. There was really no doubt that the man on the gurney was dying. 

Still his partner and the attendants worked frantically to keep him alive as I looked on. One of them was suctioning blood from the man's mouth while another cut away the last of the bloody clothes, shouting his discoveries and instructions to the others. The man had taken a shotgun blast; some of the pellets had hit his arms and face -- even one in his neck -- but most took him square in the chest. One of the attendants began hastily taping squares of plastic and foil over each bubbling wound. 

The man on the gurney coughed and gasped and struggled weakly, spraying blood on his helpers. His partner crouched over him, holding his head and murmuring words that were lost in the bustle and horror of the scene. 

Losing interest, I drifted away. 

I stepped through the doorway and gazed around at the night-shrouded jungle. This place was familiar; I looked back to find that I had just left a temple, overgrown with vines and moss. The open door beckoned, but I turned and stepped down from the stone platform in front. The rich smells and varied sounds of the rainforest seduced my senses. 

A low growl drew my attention. There was the panther, its tail lashing and its ears pinned back. It hissed and spat at something small running along the ground. I tried to focus, but it was hard to see. The creature seemed like some kind of rodent or weasel, undulating swiftly across the ground on short legs. It darted out of of the panther's reach and dashed right between my legs. I moved to block it, but I was too late. The thing scampered up the steps of the temple and ran into the blackness within. 

The door swung shut behind it. 

The boom of the stone slabs meeting seemed to ring through my bones, staggering me where I stood. The night went dark as if a cloud had covered the nonexistent moon, and the noisy insects fell silent one by one. I stumbled up the steps and clawed with my fingers at the edge of the door, but it was firmly shut. 

Weakness crept through me like a fog, and I slumped to my knees. A warm-furred body pressed near, and a great head butted at my stomach. I tried to push the panther away, but he shoved me again, trying to raise me to my feet. The wind was rising. 

At the panther's continued urgings, I forced myself to stand. The air was chill, the darkness growing deeper. I could smell snow on the wind as it stirred broad, delicate leaves that had never known true cold. My own skin shivered; I had to find shelter. 

I stumbled through the darkness on barely-seen paths, with only the soft brush of the panther's tail to guide me. Other stone shapes loomed in the night, but none offered any entrance. Through ears that seemed stuffed with cotton, I heard a wolf's mournful howl, as incongruous as the soft flakes beginning to sift down on the jungle. Three times I lost my footing and sank to the ground, ready to give up, but each time the panther pushed at me until I got up again. 

The fourth time I tripped, my knees found a ledge of stone under the snowy blanket. I could see and hear nothing now but the blowing needles of ice, and my hands and feet were numb. The blunt head shoved against the backs of my legs with new urgency. Wearily, I crawled across the stone toward the vague sense of a shelter from the wind. As the veil of snow cleared, I saw that we had come to another building \-- more of a hut than a temple, but shelter nonetheless. The door was ajar, the interior devoid of movement or life. I dragged myself across the threshold and pushed the door closed before collapsing wearily on the floor. 

* * *

Bright lights glared beyond my eyelids. Beeps and hisses sounded around me. A bored voice crackled from a distant speaker. 

Hospital. It was only too familiar. But something was wrong -- everything seemed dull and blurred. I felt disconnected, off kilter. 

My eyes were hot and crusty, reluctant to open. My lips, when I swept a dry tongue across them, were stiff and cracked. Other than that, I wasn't in too much discomfort. That was odd all by itself, but I couldn't quite think why. What was I doing in the hospital anyway? Nothing seemed to be broken; all I could feel was an incredible weakness. It required a monumental effort just to move my arms. 

An alarm sounded as I tried to turn my head. Even that noise seemed muffled, as if I had earplugs in. I tried to raise a hand to check, but it was trapped beneath the covers. 

If I waited, he would come to help me. He would know what was wrong with my ears and eyes. I couldn't quite remember his face, and his name escaped me just at the moment -- but I would know his voice when I heard it. He would arrive and solve whatever problem was keeping me wrapped in cotton, insulated from the world. 

A door to my right swung open and I forced my head to turn, cracking open my eyes. It wasn't him -- just a nurse regarding me in surprise. 

"Well, hello!" she said cheerily. "Welcome back, shrell." 

I formed a word with my tongue and lips, but nothing came out. 

"Just a moment, dearie," said the nurse. "Let me get you some water." She returned in less than a minute with a tiny cup and a straw. "Just a sip, now -- your stomach is a little out of practice, you know." 

"W -- w . . . where," I managed. My voice sounded strange, weak and high-pitched. 

"You're in the long-term care facility at Engelmann. Do you remember what happened?" 

I struggled to focus. I remembered a flash in the darkness, and a deafening noise. "Shot?" I breathed. 

"No, dearie, you were in a car accident. It's not surprising that you wouldn't remember, though. You had a nasty knock on the head." 

Car accident? Her earlier words came back to me -- long-term? "How long?" I croaked. 

"The accident was nearly two months ago. You've been in this wing for over four weeks now. You were in a coma." 

I blinked at her, uncomprehending. It didn't make sense. Two months? That would at least explain why _he_ wasn't here sitting with me, but the car accident didn't sound right at all. 

"Now, I don't want you to worry, shrell. You're awake now, and that's a very good sign. You might be a little confused at first, but that's only to be expected. You give it time and I'm sure you'll do better. Right now I'd like to call in a doctor and have you answer a few simple questions." She slipped out the door. 

I rolled my head back and forth in protest, the only movement I seemed to be able to make. Was I paralyzed? No -- my hands and feet moved, but the covers bound me so tightly I couldn't escape. 

The nurse was back soon enough. She loosened the covers around me and slipped a stethoscope under my gown. The bell should have been colder, harder against my chest. Why was I so numb? 

"No," I told her. "Not a car. Shotgun." 

"Hush, dearie, I need to listen to your breathing." She was a big woman, looming over me. The bed was big too -- in fact, the whole room was designed on a very generous scale for a hospital room. Or was my sense of space distorted as well? 

I managed to worm a hand out from under the covers. The nurse caught it and pressed large, warm fingers over my wrist. I stared at the hand she was gripping. 

It was a delicate hand, the color of fine milk chocolate on the back and dusky pink across the palm. 

"Not my hand," I mumbled, watching as the fingers curled at my command. I pulled the wrist free and reached up to my face. No wonder I couldn't speak properly -- I was wearing someone else's mouth! Short, wiry curls crinkled under my touch. "'Sizzn't my body!" I said in growing alarm. 

The nurse was patting at my shoulder to calm me when a doctor entered. "Well, miss utterly!" he exclaimed. Why was everyone speaking gibberish? "I see you're awake." 

"This isn't me," I told him, articulating carefully with my borrowed tongue. "I'm someone else. This isn't my body." 

He blinked. "Do you know where you are, miss?" 

"Engelmann. Buh 'sall wrong. I was shot, not in a car crash." 

"Can you tell me your name?" 

I stared at him. The name was right there, on the tip of my tongue, but it wouldn't quite come to me. "Eh . . . Ellis . . . this isn't me!" I tried to grab his lapel to pull him closer, so I could make it all clear. Instead, the unfamiliar hand at the end of a short arm caught the end of the stethoscope wrapped around his neck. The bell whacked against his temple as I pulled it free. "I'm not . . . 'snot my body!" 

The doctor caught my hand and pinned it down easily. I still hadn't gotten the other free of the tight sheet holding it down -- or was it tied to the bed? 

"Gina, get me 10 cc's of Thorazine," the doctor said in an artificially calm voice. 

"No! No drugs!" my voice rose to a surprising screech. 

"Thorazine, doctor?" the nurse asked for confirmation. 

"Yes, dammit! We have to get her to calm down, but we don't want to send her back into the coma." 

I tried to pull free, but I was so weak. I couldn't even lift my head. "Please," I mumbled. "No drugs. I have bad reactions." 

The nurse brought a syringe, and the doctor released me to check it. The nurse caught my hand before I could do anything. She pushed my other sleeve up, and I could see the tube running into my left arm. The entire arm was thin, small, and light brown in color. It was taped to the bed; that was why I couldn't move it. 

"No, no drugs." I barely had the strength to move as the doctor slipped the needle into a port on my IV. "Blair! Ask Blair! He knows." But even as the remembered name energized me, I could feel the drug taking effect. 

I drifted in and out for a while, visions of temples and panthers mingling with occasional glimpses of bright lights and strange faces clustered around me. When I finally reached something like awareness, I found a nurse giving me a sponge bath. 

There was another layer of distance between me and the world around me. My senses were dulled so that hardly anything felt real, and the part of my brain that worried about problems seemed to be asleep still. I remembered that I was stuck in a strange body, but I couldn't seem to make myself care about it. 

The nurse -- not the same one as before -- smiled when she saw that my eyes were open. "Well, you're awake!" she said cheerily. "Too bad you didn't wake up an hour ago -- your mother was here to see you." 

"M'motherz dead," I mumbled. 

The nurse didn't answer, being busy wiping me down in a very embarrassing place. 

"So how are you feeling, shrell?" she asked at last, tucking the covers around me once again. 

"Tired," I complained. "Why's everyone call me that?" This new voice of mine was high-pitched, but too weak to be called shrill. 

"That's your name, sweetie." She unhooked the chart from the bottom of the bed and lifted it up so I could see. 

I mustered up enough energy to pull the chart closer and study it. Cherelle Sutterly, it said. Race: B. Sex: F. Age: 19. Head injury (MVA). There was more, too much to take in at one glance. 

I shook my head weakly. "Not right," I said. 

"I know you're confused, honey. But that's normal. Give it time. I'm sure your memory will come back. We'll have a doctor talk it over with you when you're feeling a little better." 

I was still twisting my head back and forth as she left the room. Then the drugs caught up with me again, and I slept. 

  * * * 



There was a phone on the table, several feet from the bed. I spent long minutes unwrapping the tape from my left arm. Then, with a huge effort, I rolled over and stretched; my cappuccino-colored hands barely reached. I pulled on the cord, and the wheeled table squeaked a little closer. The old-fashioned square phone seemed enormous, impossibly heavy. I could barely shift it with my weak, borrowed arms. Close enough, I decided, and tried to dial. 

The phone rang six times. I frowned. Why hadn't the answering machine picked up? At last, a voice spoke blearily. 

"Yeah?" The voice was slurred with sleep, but I didn't think it was anyone I knew. 

I swallowed. "Um . . . Simon Banks, please." The words that came from my mouth were soft and timid. Did I really sound like that? 

"Wrong number, lady." The dial tone returned unapologetically. 

The receiver fell from my shaking hand. What if it was all a dream, all my imagination? What if this really was my own body? Perhaps there was no cop named Jim Ellison, no Simon Banks or Blair Sandburg . . . 

Blair! He could help me, if anyone could. I fumbled for the fallen receiver and depressed the switch on the cradle. My dainty fingers poked uncertainly at the buttons. Everything seemed blurry and colorless, and my hands wouldn't obey me. Had I dialed that correctly? 

On the second ring, I heard the sweet voice I was missing, but it was only a recording. "Hi, this is Jim and Blair's place. Leave a message and we'll call you back. Or if you're one of those people who hates answering machines, don't leave a message and we'll forgive you." 

I waited for the beep. "Sandburg, it's . . ." I trailed off, unable to say it. What was I supposed to tell a machine anyway -- that Sandburg's best friend had gotten stuck in someone else's body? Or that he had never met me, the person who spoke with such a light soprano, but if he would come to my hospital room I had something important to tell him? What room was I in, anyway? 

While I hesitated, the machine beeped again and hung up. 

No, there was no message I could leave. I needed to speak to someone in person. But at least now I knew that I hadn't imagined Jim Ellison. He was a real person, and he lived with Blair, and I was supposed to be him -- not some teenaged black girl who had almost died in a car wreck. 

So if Blair was real, Simon must be also. I had just mis-dialed the first time. I tried again. My eyelids were sagging, and my wasted arm seemed even heavier than it had just a minute ago, but I squinted at the phone stubbornly as I tried to dial. 

The phone company gave me three annoying tones and told me that the number I had dialed was not a working number. I forced my small brown hand to press the switch down and try again. After hitting the last number I collapsed back against the pillows. 

This time, the familiar bark came after the first ring. "Banks!" 

I smiled. So he was real, too. That was good. I wondered how Simon would react when I told him . . . 

"Hello? Is there someone there?" 

Oh, right. I should say something. I pushed the leaden receiver up closer to my mouth. "Ssssszzzz . . . ." 

I fell asleep and dreamed of shotguns. 

* * *

I woke to the sound of weeping. A large woman was clutching my hand to her dark brown cheek. She dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled kleenex, but most of the tears had already run down to paint my hand with mascara. 

I pulled away involuntarily, and the woman straightened. 

"Cherelle?" she whispered. "Oh, Sherry, child, thank the Lord you're better." 

I just stared, unable to think of anything to say. _Oh shit_ was all that came to mind, and that would hardly be polite. 

She sniffed hugely and swiped at her eyes again. "Now, honey, the doctor told me -- I know you're confused. But it's me. Your Mama. You remember me, don't you?" 

I shook my head slowly. "I'm sorry." 

"Oh, Sherry, don't be sorry. The Lord brought you back to us, that's a great gift. I'm not going to be complaining if we have to spend a while helping you get back your memory." 

"Um," I said. "Look, Mrs. Sutterly --" 

"Mama, child. You call me Mama." 

I swallowed hard. 

"Doctor says in a few days, after they've run all their tests and made sure you ain't going back into a coma, you can come home. All your brothers and sisters will be so glad to see you again! They've been praying every day since you was in that accident." 

My eyebrows rose. Brothers _and_ sisters? How big a family were we talking about here? 

"And see, honey, here's Frank come to see you!" 

A huge man, bigger than Simon, loomed over the bed. Was this one of those brothers the woman had mentioned? 

Apparently not. Before I could move away, he planted a kiss right on my mouth. I twisted my head aside, feeling a tongue slither across my cheek. 

"Sherry, Baby," he murmured in a rumbling bass. "I was so worried about you. I'm so sorry, so sorry, Baby. I never saw that truck coming. If only it woulda hit my side of the car, 'stead of yours. . ." 

I shrank back into the pillow, appealing to the woman with my eyes. "Mrs. \-- um, Mama?" 

"Frank, step back and give the girl a minute," said Mrs. Sutterly briskly. "She don't remember anything." 

"Oh, but you gotta remember me, Baby. You do, don't you? Say you do. Tell me you remember." 

"No, uh . . . can't say that I do." Please, I was thinking, don't let Cherelle be married to this behemoth. 

Mrs. Sutterly stepped forward, pushing Frank aside. "Honey, this is Frank Tooley. You and him were going to be married in the spring." 

Not married yet, then, but almost as bad. I tried a weak smile, shaking my head. "I'm sorry, I just don't . . ." 

"I know, child. Don't you worry about a thing. We'll take care of you, give you plenty of time to remember what you need. Now, the doctor's coming in to have a little conference with us -- you feel up to hearing what he has to say?" 

"Sure. Whatever." Maybe having the doctor in the room would prevent Frank from making further advances. 

Unfortunately, while Mrs. Sutterly -- Mama? -- was out of the room getting the doctor, I was alone with Frank. He held my hand and gazed at me earnestly. "Baby, I know you can remember. Just try to think, okay? We were in the car --" 

"Really, I can't remember anything." I tried to reclaim my hand, but my weak borrowed muscles were no match for his meaty grip. "Look, I know you must be upset about this, but I can't pretend I know something that I don't, okay?" 

"But Sherry, you and me are so good together! We belong to each other. I know you can feel that." 

I watched apprehensively as he leaned closer. If he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth again, I swore I would bite it off. But before he could trap my head against the pillow, the door opened again. 

My heart sank. It was the same doctor who had shot me full of thorazine. This was not very promising. 

"Hello, Cherelle," he said cheerfully. "Remember me? I'm Dr. Williams. You were a little out of it the last time I saw you, but you're looking a lot better now." 

I nodded sullenly, still trying to squirm my fingers out of Frank's grasp. 

Dr. Williams' eyes darted quickly between Frank and me. "Excuse me sir, if I could just get in there --" He elbowed Frank delicately out of the way. It was very smoothly done; *ten points for the doc,* I thought. I could forgive the guy for the Thorazine if he'd just keep Frank out of my face. 

The doctor quickly assessed my vital signs and asked me a few simple questions to establish my state of mind. Then he stood back a little, leafing through my chart. 

"All right. Miss Sutterly, Mrs. Sutterly, Mr. -- O'Toole, is it?" 

"Tooley," Frank growled. 

"Ah, yes. I just wanted to make sure you all know the current situation and what we can predict -- and can't predict -- about Miss Sutterly's future recovery. The fact is that injuries to the brain, and the way every patient responds differently, are still pretty much a mystery to us. We can make guesses based on what we know about brain structure and the outcome of similar cases, but we're not always correct -- which you already know from the fact that a few days ago we thought Cherelle would probably never wake up. Now she is awake, and apparently all motor functions and most mental functions -- such as language \-- are working just fine. The only major problem just now is the amnesia." 

"I feel really weak," I put in. 

"Yes. That's a normal result of the two months you've just spent in bed -- your muscles have begun to atrophy. Fortunately the process hasn't gone too far, and you should be able to recover your muscle tone within a few months. We'll want to do a more detailed assessment of your neuromotor skills, but so far we've seen no problems attributable to the head injury. That's pretty surprising in itself." 

He pulled an X-Ray out of the file and held it up to the light. Frank and Mrs. Sutterly moved closer to see it, but it was at the wrong angle for me to make out any details. Reflexively, I tried to narrow my sight, but all that got me was a headache. 

"As the two of you know -- but Miss Sutterly hasn't heard yet -- she suffered a depressed skull fracture in the region of the right temporal lobe, with associated concussion and intracranial bleeding involving a large portion of both hemispheres . . ." 

I listened to the doctor's words with half my attention. It sounded like the poor girl was dead; I didn't blame them for thinking she would never wake up. But what did that have to do with why _I_ was here, and how could it help me get out of this situation? 

I remembered the flash, and the great blow that had struck me in the chest. If Cherelle Sutterly was a body with no mind left to inhabit it, was Jim Ellison a mind with no body? Was that how I had ended up like this? 

"Cherelle?" Dr. Williams said, as if he had spoken several times already. 

"Oh. Uh, sorry." I forced a smile. 

"You seem a little distracted. Maybe we should continue this another time?" 

"Huh? No, I was just thinking. Look, doc, could I talk to you?" 

"Of course." 

"Um." I glanced at Cherelle's hovering family. "Alone." 

Mrs. Sutterly didn't like it, but she was ready to go along. Frank was ready for a fight. Dr. Williams handled them both smoothly out of the room, then came back and perched a hip on the edge of the bed, regarding me earnestly. "How can I help you, Cherelle?" 

Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the feeling of being completely isolated, worse than I could remember since Peru. Maybe it was the way Williams had picked up so quickly on the tension between me and Frank. Whatever it was, I thought I could trust the man. 

"This isn't me," I said, waving at the papers scattered across the bed. "I'm not Cherelle Sutterly." 

His face took on a closed, wary look. "Cherelle, I know you're confused and disoriented. Amnesia can be very troubling to a sense of self-identity --" 

"No. I know who I am, and this isn't it. I'm not a teenaged girl, okay? I'm a man. A cop. I don't know how this happened, but there's been some mix-up . . ." 

He blinked several times. "We can get you a mirror, Cherelle. The truth is that you are a young woman. There's no need for you to deny that or hide from it -- you're a very bright girl with excellent grades and a fine future --" 

"No, you don't understand. I wasn't in a car accident. I was shot. This isn't my body. Somehow, I ended up in the wrong body. Don't you get it? I don't belong here." 

He was silent for several minutes. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. I'll bring you a pad of paper and a pen. I'd like you to write down everything you remember about yourself -- about being a man. Write it all down, and I'll go over it with you later. But until then, could you do me a favor? Could you not discuss this with your mother?" 

"Of course I'm not going to talk to her about it!" I hissed. "I'm not that insensitive!" 

"Good, good. Thank you. That will help a lot. You just, uh -- put down all the facts you can remember, and we'll discuss it next time I see you, okay?" 

"Great. Fine. Just . . . could you maybe keep Cherelle's family off my back for a while?" 

He nodded slowly. "I'll tell them you're tired. Visiting hours are essentially at my discretion, so I'll just try to keep it limited." 

Tired wasn't far from the truth -- I had no stamina left. Mrs. Sutterly and Frank came in for some tearful goodnights. A nurse brought me a pen and paper. I wrote my name across it: Jim Ellison, in shaky block print. Then I signed my name. It was my signature, more or less, but it looked like it was written by a forger with the DTs. No way it could pass muster from anyone who knew what my signature _ought_ to look like. I let the paper drop from weary hands, and sleep caught up with me once more. 

* * *

Once again I tried calling the loft and got the machine. I didn't even try to leave a message this time. I had to find Blair. 

Maybe he was at the university. I tried to remember the number. He had moved out of that gloomy artifact storage room and gotten a proper office, but all I could recall was that it was speed dial three on my cell phone. It was dark outside, so I couldn't call the department office, and information didn't have all the university extensions. . . 

Simon, then. I dialed the station's number with more confidence. 

"Banks." 

"Simon, thank god," I said fervently. "I need your help." 

"Who is this?" 

Oops. In such a short time, I had forgotten how different my voice sounded. "It's Jim. I'm --" 

"Jim who?" 

"Ellison!" My snarl didn't come out at all right; it sounded more like a piercing whine. 

"Ellison -- what about him? Are you calling from the hospital? Do you realize we've been getting prank calls from one of your phones?" 

I was silent, groping for words. "Yes, I'm at the hospital. I need you to come see me, so I can explain . . ." 

"Explain what? Look, nurse, if you have a problem, tell it to the officer in front of Ellison's room. I'll be there in fifteen minutes." 

"No, wait -- Simon!" 

He was gone already. Gone to visit his detective, who was apparently in the hospital. Which hospital -- this one? Did that mean my body was still alive? 

Maybe there was hope yet. 

* * *

A knock on the door. A gray-bearded man stepped inside. "Hi there," he said in the same cheery tone that marked all hospital staff. "You have a minute?" 

"Sure." I studied him as he walked in. 

"I'm Dr. Broward," he told me. "Dr. Williams asked me to stop by and talk to you." He had all the arrogance of a doctor, but he wasn't wearing a stethoscope. 

"Oh, did he," I grumbled. So much for trusting Williams. "Shrink, right?" 

He gave the false smile of one who hates being stereotyped, but knows objecting would just make it worse. "Yes, I'm a staff psychiatrist here. Dr. Williams told me you had some interesting things to say." 

"Dr. Williams thinks I'm completely crazy, and he doesn't know what to do about it," I paraphrased. 

"Hmmm," Broward offered non-committally. "Would you like to tell me about what you said to Dr. Williams?" 

I looked away, feeling an absurd sense of disappointment that Williams had betrayed me. But I didn't have time for that; I had to think of some explanation that would match what I had said to Williams without landing me in the loony bin. 

"Look," I began weakly, "it's just confusing, okay? I don't remember anything about being Cherelle Sutterly. The name isn't familiar, I don't know the people who are claiming to be my family -- it just doesn't seem to fit, okay? I thought I remembered something else, closer to -- to how I feel. Something that seemed to make more sense, except it doesn't." 

"Doesn't make sense how?" 

I spread my hands, gesturing towards my body. "Well, obviously I'm not a man, right? Obviously I'm not a white policeman. So even if that seems to fit the way I feel on the inside, it must not be true." 

"Hmmm," he said again, infuriatingly. 

"Look, doc, I can tell the difference between reality and imagination, okay? I'm a little shook up, but what with the amnesia and the drugs, that's hardly suprising, right? Give me a little time and I'm sure I'll get it all straightened out." 

"I see. What about the journal Dr. Williams asked you to start? Can I see that?" 

Stupidly, I let my eyes drift towards the pad of paper sitting on the table. "I didn't write anything," I said. "I fell asleep. I've been sleeping most of the time anyway. Actually, I'm feeling kinda sleepy right now . . ." 

He didn't take the hint, but reached instead for the pad. I winced as he studied the first page. "Jim Ellison. Did you write this?" 

I shrugged. "It was something I thought I remembered. It just seems weird. I can't remember anything about Cherelle Sutterly or her -- my \-- family, but I feel sure I know something about this Ellison person." I smiled weakly. "Maybe I read about him somewhere or something like that. I guess the brain is pretty complicated, huh?" 

"Yes, that's certainly true. Listen, Cherelle, you shouldn't be afraid to talk about anything that you're feeling right now. Even if it does seem illogical. Letting us know what's going on with you will help us to help you better, okay?" 

"Uh-huh," I said brightly, trying to sound as if I believed him. In my girlish soprano, it actually came across rather well. "Right now all I'm feeling is tired, though." 

He sighed. "All right. I'll be back to talk to you later, Cherelle, is that okay with you?" 

As if I could object. "That's fine," I said, still sweetly. Eyelids drooping, I watched as he took the top sheet of paper from the pad and carried it out of the room with him. 

Clearly, I would have to be more careful whom I talked to. Confiding in Williams had just gotten me an interview with a shrink. Calling Simon hadn't helped much either, except to tell me that my own body apparently wasn't dead. That was good to know, but I doubted that Simon would be receptive to the idea that _I_ was Jim Ellison. 

It looked like I was on my own. 

* * *

Knees wobbling, I clung to the edge of the doorway and stared down the hall. My immediate objective: get to the bathroom. Unfortunately, a patient who was in a coma for two months didn't rate a room with a private toilet. I did _not_ want to experience even one more intimate encounter with a chilly bedpan. To think I had once believed those little plastic urinals were embarrassing! I'd give a lot to be able to use one of those just now. 

My ultimate objective, of course, was getting my own body back. I just hadn't figured out all the mission parameters yet. 

I staggered a few steps, supporting myself against the wall. They had disconnected my IV in the afternoon, after it was established that my stomach could handle liquids and soft foods. When I first crawled out of bed, I had been grateful I didn't have to drag a pole along with me. Now I was thinking that it might be nice to have something to lean on. 

Four more steps, and I was able to sink down onto a padded bench for a few minutes. Halfway there; I could see the door of the bathroom just a dozen yards away. I gathered myself for another effort. 

When I reached the bathroom at last, it turned out to be occupied. I concentrated on keeping my knees locked while the occupant finished. When the lady came out at last -- dragging an IV pole with her -- she had to catch me with a quick hand under my elbow the first time I took another step. I smiled thinly, too embarrassed to be properly grateful. Then at last I was on my own. 

The toilet turned out to be only marginally less messy and embarrassing than a bedpan; the only real difference was that no one was there to witness my clumsiness. I closed my eyes and reminded myself that this was not really my body. And after all, I had had my hands in similar places before, hadn't I? The rationalization wasn't very comforting. I used a lot of paper. 

When I bent over the sink to wash my hands, the reflection in the mirror startled me so badly I nearly fell down. It was such a _young_ face, and so feminine. Wide brown eyes, delicately flared nostrils, and a lush mouth beneath a cap of tight curls. The hair was short -- probably shaved two months ago after Cherelle's accident. The high cheekbones were strong and elegant, but I wanted my own square jaw and receding hairline back. 

I glanced down the rest of this strange body, but it was so disorienting I looked away quickly. An afterimage stayed with me of moderate-sized breasts and soft brown skin made loose by sudden illness. It wasn't an ugly body, but the contrast with the muscles I had spent years working into condition made me dizzy, almost nauseated. 

On the trip back down the hall, I made it as far as the bench before my borrowed legs gave out entirely. They kept quivering and twitching as I slumped there, and I glared down at the thin, useless limbs. How could I begin to get my own body back if I couldn't even control this one? I needed help from somewhere, but the memory of Dr. Broward's skeptical eyebrow made me wary of speaking to anyone else. 

Just then, a familiar voice made me jerk my head up. My heart thumped eagerly. Blair Sandburg was walking down the hall toward me, gesticulating broadly as he talked. I was so glad to see him and hear his voice that it took me several seconds to realize who he was talking to. 

"Nonsense," my father replied to whatever Blair had said. "He'll get much better care at my house. I will hire someone to be with him 24 hours a day. Can you promise as much?" 

"By the time he's released from the hospital, he's not going to need 24-hour care!" Blair expostulated. "I just think he'd be more comfortable at home with me." 

"He doesn't even recognize you!" 

I could see Blair wince as they drew closer to where I was sitting. "Well, he doesn't remember you either! The doctor said familiar surroundings would help --" 

"That would be the house he grew up in," my father interrupted. 

"He hasn't set foot in that house more than twice in the last fifteen years! He should be in his own home, with his own things." 

I stared at them, blood pounding in my ears as I realized what they were talking about. Me! They were discussing me. 

I raised a hand weakly as they passed by, and Blair stopped at once. He smiled down at me. "Are you okay?" 

I moved my mouth, but nothing came out. 

He wrapped my hand in his own warm one. It was strange, seeing him as larger than myself. "Do you need some help?" 

"I, uh . . ." I licked lips that were suddenly dry. 

My father stopped a little ways down the hallway and looked back. "Are you coming, or do you intend to flirt with every female between here and the ICU?" 

A chill went down my spine. Suddenly Blair's friendly manner was no longer so comforting. 

Sandburg frowned, looking torn. "You go ahead," he said at last. "They only allow one visitor at a time, anyway." 

I squirmed my hand free. "No, go on," I murmured, hating my weak feminine voice more than ever. "I'm all right." 

Blair just smiled and settled next to me on the bench as my father strode away. "It's okay, I wasn't really enjoying that discussion much anyway," he confessed in a whisper. "My name's Blair Sandburg, what's yours?" 

"Um, J -- Ch -- Cherelle," I stammered. "Most people call me Sherry." 

"Well, is there anything I can get for you, Sherry?" He pronounced the nickname with an emphasis on the second syllable. 

I looked away, not wanting to see the familiar Sandburg woman-chasing expression directed at me. Even sitting down, he was surprisingly big. "No, I, uh -- I was just headed back to my room." 

"Well, do you need a hand?" 

"I'm fine, really." 

"Great." He stood up. "I'll walk you there. Which room is yours?" 

"Right down there," I admitted reluctantly, starting to lever myself upright. 

He caught my arm neatly and offered support where it would be most helpful. "I'm here to visit a friend of mine," he explained, using conversation to smooth the awkwardness in typical Sandburg style. "But I don't get along so well with his family, and it's pretty frustrating." He started to lead me along the hallway. 

My mind raced as I tried to figure out how to ask him for the details I needed. "So . . . your friend doesn't remember you?" 

Blair was silent for a moment. "We're not sure. He's only been awake a few minutes since he was shot, and he can't talk right now. It could be amnesia, or just that he's too groggy and doped up to understand what's going on." 

I placed my feet carefully. "He's in ICU?" I asked. 

"Yeah, he took a shotgun blast to the chest. It was pretty bad." 

Glancing at his face, I saw that it was stiff and pale. I couldn't hear his heartbeat or breathing, but I knew Blair well enough to recognize the hidden misery. 

"Here we are!" he said brightly. "This is your room, right?" He bumped against the door frame as we passed in together. 

"Yes . . ." I groped for the support of the bed. "I'm sorry about your friend," I offered. 

Blair smiled sadly. "Well, he's alive, and that's the most important thing. For a while we thought he wouldn't make it, so I should be grateful for that at least, shouldn't I?" 

Perched on the side of the bed, I stared at him. "Blair --" 

Before I could even decide what I meant to tell him, a nurse bustled in. "Sherry, what were you doing out of bed?" 

"I had to go to the bathroom," I said stubbornly. 

"You're not supposed to be walking around on your own yet!" she scolded. 

Blair ducked out of the nurse's way, gave me a little wave, and was gone before I could stop him. 

"If I'm not supposed to be out of bed, why the hell did you take out the catheter?" I demanded. 

"Now, there's no need for strong language, dearie. You'll be starting physical therapy tomorrow morning. For now --" 

"I'm not using another bedpan," I growled. It still wasn't very effective with my new voice. 

"We'll see if we can get you transferred to a room with a private toilet," said the nurse, "but until then you shouldn't be on your feet. Call a nurse if you need help. We can bring you a portable potty." 

I grimaced. "How about a wheelchair?" 

  * * * 



As I discovered a few hours later, a wheelchair wasn't much of an improvement for someone with arms as weak as mine. I could manage about four or five good solid pushes before my arms got too tired for more. But at least it was easier to stop for a rest and then get started again. 

I had never been in Engelmann's new Long-Term Care wing, but I knew roughly where it was in relation to the rest of the hospital. I had to cross a walkway over the cafeteria courtyard to get to the main wing. Once there, I was intimately familiar with the route to Intensive Care. 

Wheeling myself along the glass-walled overpass, I stopped to stare down at one of the tables. A familiar mop of curly hair was fanned out across an empty tray as Sandburg dozed at the table. How many hours had he spent here since the shooting? 

I swallowed hard. Maybe I should have told him the truth. I was getting ready to, when the nurse came in. I was pretty sure I could get Blair to believe me. But would anyone else? Would I just be pulling Blair into trouble along with me, if I convinced him I was Jim Ellison? 

First, I decided, I had to know more. The person everyone _thought_ was Jim Ellison had been awake at least briefly since he was brought to the hospital. That meant my body wasn't just an empty shell; someone was in there. I needed to know who it was. 

If it turned out to be Cherelle Sutterly, we might be able to work out this whole mess. If it was someone else, everything got much more complicated. 

A few more bursts of exertion and a ride on the elevator brought me to the ICU. I knew better than to ask a nurse where Detective Ellison's room was; they would just call someone to take me back to the long- term care wing. It wasn't difficult to tell which bed to check, anyway, since there was a uniform sitting by the door. 

I smiled weakly at the officer -- Sayers, wasn't it? -- and wheeled myself up to the window. The sight of my own body lying there gripped me with a strange fascination. There was a large dressing over half the face; had one of the pellets hit me there? More dressings covered most of the chest, neck, and upper arms. Tubes sucked at either side of the chest to keep the lungs inflated, and another tube ran down the throat, taped in place around the mouth. Monitors of every description surrounded my body and needles ran into each arm. For a brief moment, I was glad not to be in my own body just now. 

Then the eyes opened and looked straight at me. 

I couldn't tell if he knew who I was, but I recognized him right away. The eyes were the same blue I had seen in the mirror last time I shaved \-- but the flat light in them belonged to Nathan Secrist, professional assassin. 

Flashes of lost memory rushed in on me. The call coming in that Secrist had been sighted down by the docks. Driving swiftly through rain-slick streets, telling Sandburg to stay in the truck, searching around the empty warehouses. 

The sound of a bolt pulling back as I spun to face the doorway. My gun lifting, my trigger finger tightening without conscious thought. A flash of light, a deafening roar . . . 

Chill raindrops falling on my face, glittering like sparks beneath the streetlights. 

Then his eyes closed, and memory released its hold on me. 

"You okay, miss?" Sayers was asking. 

I nodded, dry-mouthed. "I was looking for someone else," I managed, and wheeled myself back to the elevator. 

Those blue eyes, even glazed with pain and drugs, had seemed to bore right into me. Had he guessed who I was? Could he hear my heart pounding even as I waited for the elevator to arrive? 

So now I knew my mission parameters. While I worked to get my body back, I had to figure out some way to protect my friends and family from an assassin wearing Jim Ellison's face. 

I had to find a way to protect Sandburg. 

* * *

The foundation of every successful mission is good intelligence. I started on my homework by getting hold of a three-day old newspaper. The story was on page two: "Detective Injured in Deadly Shoot-Out." 

Detective James J. Ellison, 1996 recipient of the Officer of the Year award, was in critical condition at Engelmann Hospital after receiving a shotgun blast to the head and chest. He had been pursuing Nathan Secrist, a notorious contract killer wanted in fifteen states, who was suspected of involvement in the shooting death last month of City Council member William Habecker. Habecker had been a controversial figure in city politics ever since he decided to vote against a popular resolution etc., etc. 

Despite his near-fatal injuries, Ellison had managed to get a shot off, wounding Secrist enough to enable his colleague, Detective Brian Rafe, to track the killer three blocks and eventually bring him down. 

"Good for you, Rafe," I murmured. 

Secrist, arriving at the hospital only minutes after the ambulance carrying Det. Ellison, was declared dead upon arrival. 

I frowned at that information. So Secrist was dead, was he? Or at least his body was gone. That would make it pretty hard to persuade him to give up the body he'd stolen from me, even if I had the faintest idea of how to make the transfer. 

After I had read what the paper had to say, I tried to find out more about the condition of my body. When I called the ICU claiming to be a reporter, all the nurses could tell me was Ellison's basic condition \-- "stable" the first time I called, and "serious" the next day. If I wanted to know more, I would have to get closer. 

I was really starting to miss the ability to hear through walls. 

There was no officer on duty when I snuck into the ICU this time -- an unexpected bonus. When one of the nurses caught me lurking around a short while later, I found out that the officer had only been posted because some strange phone calls had been made from the hospital. It was probably just some mix-up -- there was no _real_ danger because the man who had shot the detective was dead. 

Hospital security escorted me back to the long-term care wing and warned me that my wrist would be slapped if I went exploring in restricted areas again. I only overheard a little of the nurses' conversation before I was caught, but it was obvious that "Detective Ellison" would be in the hospital for at least a few weeks. That gave me some time to work in. 

One of the most essential skills for an assassin -- or a detective, for that matter -- is to be able to get into his enemy's mind and predict his next move. That was what made Secrist so good at his job, and what made me a good detective even without the Sentinel thing on my side. Now I had to figure out how Secrist would react when he woke up to find himself in a strange body. 

Since the same thing had just happened to me, I had some special insight into the problem. 

The big difference for Secrist was that he would have more time to get his bearings. The body he was in -- _my_ body -- was much sicker. He wouldn't be expected to talk the first few times he woke, and nobody would be surprised if he was a little disoriented when he did speak. He might have some trouble if he had to deal with Sentinel senses along with being in a strange body, but he would still have more time to adjust than I had. On top of that, he already knew who Detective Ellison was. All it would take would be for a nurse to call him by my name a few times, and Secrist would have a pretty fair idea of what was going on. 

What would he do then? Play along, of course, until he got some of his strength back. He'd play up the disorientation angle, probably claim amnesia just as I was doing. When he got out of the hospital, _that_ would be the critical period. Secrist would want to get his own life back, as much as possible, but he'd also be looking to take advantage of his position as an acclaimed hero in blue. I doubted he'd go so far as to try to take up my job at the station; more likely he'd exaggerate the seriousness of the injuries to make it seem impossible for him to return to the field anytime soon. 

Of course, maybe the injuries to my body _would_ make it impossible to return to the field. Ever. I couldn't afford to spend time worrying about that. 

What worried me the most was that Secrist might try to eliminate anyone who was likely to guess that he wasn't really Jim Ellison. The amnesia angle could only work so long; eventually Blair or Simon or maybe even my father would realize something was just too far off. Secrist would want to strike before that time came. With his background, Secrist could probably manage to make murder look like an accident even while he was confined to a bed. He still had resources, and possibly accomplices, that we hadn't tracked down yet. 

It was what I would do, in his position. Even in my situation, I had no idea how to deal with Mama Sutterly or the sullen Frank. If I were a little more unscrupulous, I might be thinking along Secrist's lines. 

And what if Secrist did have the senses to go with the body he had taken from me? That would probably slow him down, at least until he could get a handle on using them. Sandburg would try to help him, of course, thinking he was me. Maybe I should tell Blair what had happened, get him to stay away from Secrist. It would be nice to have some help figuring this whole thing out -- nice to know I wasn't completely alone here. 

But if Sandburg ever learned the truth, it would show all over his face. Even if he avoided Secrist altogether, his absence would be remarked on by everyone who visited. Secrist would have no trouble guessing that Blair knew, and he'd move his plans forward. I couldn't risk that. 

I would have to run this mission alone. 

* * *

The evening after the nurses caught me snooping around the ICU, Dr. Broward paid me another visit. This time I was ready for him. 

"I figured it out!" I told him excitedly, making the most of my girlish voice. "I know why I thought I was Detective Ellison!" 

"Oh?" he said slowly. 

"It was a dream I had, just before I woke up here. I've been remembering bits and pieces of it . . . I dreamed I was Detective Ellison, and I was chasing a fugitive, and I got shot. The dream was so vivid, it seemed more real to me than being myself." 

"But now you realize it was just a dream?" 

"Yes, but not _just_ a dream -- it was true! Look!" I showed him the newspaper. "This was what I saw -- it's all right there! I dreamed about the docks and the warehouse. I even remember having a partner with me, this Detective Rafe they talk about." I had carefully picked out which details to mention, and which points to get wrong. If Broward checked up on the story, he would find that I was talking more about the newspaper article than the real event. 

"So you believe you dreamed about something that was really happening." 

"Right. It was a vision. I'm sure God sent it to me. And right after the vision, I woke up from my coma! It has to be a sign. God wants me to do something, to help Detective Ellison somehow." I was betting that the religious talk would make Broward just as uncomfortable as it made me, and he would back off. 

He gave me a stern look. "Is this why you've been placing calls to Ellison's captain?" 

I tried for a repentant expression. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm anyone with the phone calls. I was just trying to find out if my dream was true or not. Now that I know it was, I'll try not to bother Captain Banks. I'm sure the Lord will tell me soon how I'm supposed to help. Until then, I can wait." 

"Hmm." Broward picked up the paper and glanced over the article I had marked with underlines at salient points. 

He would be checking up on the story, I could feel it. And hopefully when he found the inaccuracies he would conclude that I had just latched onto the Ellison angle to explain an unusually powerful dream. If I played my cards right over the next few minutes, I could get Broward out of my hair for good. 

"Do you mind if I tell Captain Banks what you just told me?" he asked. 

I gritted my teeth. I would prefer not to be brought to Simon's attention at all -- at least not until I had a plan for dealing with Secrist -- but it was already too late for that. "Okay," I said. "Would you let him know I'm sorry for calling him so late at night? The drugs had me a little confused." I tried a pout on for size. It felt strange, though it was probably more believable with Cherelle's full lips than it would have been on my own face. 

"I'm sure the captain will understand -- so long as there are no repeats of the phone calls. And no more sneaking off to the ICU, is that understood?" 

Who the hell did he think he was, my father? Even if he had truly been speaking to a nineteen-year-old girl, it seemed rather patronizing. But I nodded dutifully, hiding my resentment behind a clenched jaw until Broward had left the room. Then I let loose with a stream of curses that would have done my old drill sergeants proud. A nurse passing by the door of my room stared in surprise until I glowered at her. But I had to do something to remind myself of who I was. 

* * *

My physical therapy consisted mostly of time in the four-foot-deep heated pool, walking from one end to the other or swishing my palms through the water. I would have preferred to use the weights to build my strength more quickly, but after I had pushed my weakened muscles too hard in the first session, Alan, the head therapist, assigned me to the pool instead. He called it "self-limiting resistance training." The faster I moved, the more resistance there would be; if I got tired, I wouldn't move as quickly, and there would be no resistance -- so, no danger of tearing muscles. 

Also no danger of getting strong any time soon, I thought sourly. Water aerobics was for little old ladies wearing skirted swimsuits and caps with flowers on them. I only planned to put up with this as long as I had to. 

But until I was released from the hospital, I was sentenced to scissor kicks and breaststrokes -- and I was only allowed to do an hour at a time. At least the chlorine didn't burn my sinuses they way it would in my proper body. 

Mama Sutterly had brought in a suit for me that turned out to be several sizes too large. That fit in with the family pictures she had also brought, in which Cherelle had a rather Rubenesque silhouette. Apparently two months of nourishment through tubes had done wonders for the girl's figure, if not her muscle tone. This body was almost skinny enough to star on TV. 

So I got a new swimsuit, in a creamy white that definitely flattered Cherelle's complexion. The significance of that never really occurred to me until Sandburg came down to the therapy center. 

I was sweeping two kickboards through the water -- together and apart, together and apart, gritting my teeth as I pushed them as fast as they would go. I probably had a horrible grimace on my face -- at least that was what Marie, the assistant PT, kept telling me. I looked up and there he was by the edge of the pool, staring right at me. 

My legs gave out, and I barely caught myself on the kickboards before my head went under. "Sandburg!" I gasped. "What are you doing here?" 

He grinned. "My name's Blair," he said patiently. 

"Oh, right," I said. "I, um . . . I remembered your last name." 

He nodded, still smiling. From the shadows under his eyes I had the feeling he hadn't smiled enough lately. "I'm looking for Alan Pappas?" He cocked his head at Marie, who was in the pool to spot for me. 

"I think Alan's out to lunch right now," Marie said apologetically. "He had to take it late because he was working with a patient at noon. Can I help you with something?" 

"Well, a friend of mine is here in the hospital and he's going to need some therapy before he gets out. It won't be for a couple of weeks yet, of course. But I was just hoping I could get an idea of what would be involved?" 

"Oh. That's Alan's department, all right. He won't know for sure until he's seen your friend --" 

"I understand that. I was just hoping for a general idea." 

"Well, he should be back in half an hour or so. I can give him your message." 

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it." 

I power-walked through the breast-deep water until I reached the side where Blair was crouching. I leaned my elbows on the ledge, trying to draw his attention away from Marie. "So how is your friend doing?" 

Blair sighed and pushed the hair back from his face. "They moved him to a private room yesterday --" 

"That's good news!" 

"-- And within a couple hours they diagnosed him with pneumonia and sent him back to the ICU." 

"Oh. I'm . . . sorry to hear that," I said slowly. A stab of fear went through my heart. Pneumonia could kill, especially when it was associated with bullet wounds to the chest. Maybe I wouldn't have to worry about getting my body back after all. Maybe it wouldn't be _there_ for me to get back. 

"Are you okay, Sherry?" Blair asked quickly. He used that same strange pronunciation I had noticed before. 

I forced a smile. "I guess I'm a little chilly. This water's warm, but . . ." 

"You've been in here over 45 minutes," Marie pointed out. "Why don't you dry off and go lie in the other room. I'll be there in a few minutes to give you a rub." 

Marie tucked a hand under my elbow for the steps out of the pool, though I could mostly bear my own weight by now. Blair was at my side immediately with one of the white towels from the rack by the wall. I leaned on him a little and waved toward the door, and he gallantly helped me into the other room. 

"So how are _you_ doing?" he asked. "You look a hundred percent better than the other day." 

"I am better," I said. "Physically anyway. My memory's still gone, and it's been tough dealing with my family." 

He nodded sympathetically. "Jim still doesn't remember me either. Or his father and brother, but for some reason he seems to get along better with them, even though they hardly had any contact in the last twenty years." 

"I guess it's kind of the same for me." I took a breath for courage, then opened my brown eyes wide. "Really, I feel more comfortable with *you.* You didn't know me before, so you don't expect me to act a certain way. Does that make sense?" 

"Yeah, I suppose it does," he said slowly. "Maybe that's what's going on with Jim, too. Do you need help with that?" 

I was rubbing the towel awkwardly over my hair. The curls were so short that they hardly needed any special attention to dry within minutes, but I passed the towel to Sandburg at once. "I guess my arms still tire a little quickly," I admitted. *Don't overdo it,* I warned myself. The weak-and-helpless act was nearly enough to turn my stomach, even if it was more than half true -- or maybe _because_ it was so near the truth. 

Sandburg started to rub the towel gently over my head, considerately keeping my face free. "I knew a guy once," he told me, "who had a terrible heart attack. His brain was without oxygen for long enough that it was damaged -- but not too badly. He got out of the hospital and he could walk, talk, do everything he needed to do -- but his personality had changed. He was a much more peaceful person. He didn't like sports or violent movies anymore. And he had this friend who used to go to football games and action movies with him all the time. Suddenly they had nothing in common, and the friend didn't know what to do." Sandburg frowned, looking thoughtful. 

"So how did they cope?" I asked at last. 

"They didn't. It was basically the end of the friendship. But see, the man made new friends. He found out that some of his acquaintances, people he barely talked to before except when he had to \-- he found out suddenly he had a lot more in common with them." 

"But that's sad," I said. "That he lost his friend?" 

"Yeah, well . . ." Blair shrugged. "It was me. I was the friend. See, he was one of my mom's boyfriends, so probably we would have drifted apart anyway, since my mom never stayed with a guy very long. I did feel bad about leaving him like that, hardly even writing him. But I bumped into him a few years ago and found out that he's actually a lot happier these days than he was before he nearly died. So it may hurt, at first, having to redefine all those relationships. But maybe all you need is time to settle into your new life." 

I stared at him. His story spoke to me on so many levels I could hardly get it straight in my mind. Blair thought he was speaking to Cherelle the amnesiac, and he had just encouraged her with more sensitivity than I had ever known my young friend was capable of. But in fact, he was talking to me, the exile from my own body who might have to learn to do a lot of adapting if I couldn't get my life straightened out. And he was also talking to Jim Ellison, who had been Sandburg's roommate for over two years without ever learning this kind of stuff about him. At the same time, Blair had his own worries about losing a close friend, and I didn't dare say anything to reassure him. 

So I just sat there staring open-mouthed at Sandburg, trying to figure it all out. He was beginning to turn pink around the ears when Marie breezed into the room. "Ready for that rubdown?" she asked. 

Blair fumbled the towel and bent to pick it up from the floor. "I guess that's my cue," he said shyly. "Maybe I'll . . . see you around?" 

"I'd like that," I told him. "And let me know how your friend is doing \-- I'd really like to know." 

He smiled and waved as he headed out the door. I turned and lay facedown on the little vinyl-covered bench while Marie rubbed my shoulders, and I thought hard. 

I was the one inhabiting a strange body. So how come _Sandburg_ suddenly seemed like a completely different person? 

* * *

My homecoming to the bosom of the Sutterly family didn't go smoothly. Cherelle had four younger siblings, all with colorful names and all very skilled in the art of annoyance. The oldest, besides Cherelle, was twelve-year-old Jesrine. The girl was full of pre-teen confidence and didn't appreciate having her big sister move back home to usurp her authority. Then there were the twins aged six, Dareth and  
Darnell. They were apparently not identical, but I couldn't tell the difference, since they were dressed alike. The boys were largely uninterested in anything but their sports games and arguing over who would get to be the Jaguars this time. The youngest was three-year-old Reanna, who clung to her mother's skirts and stared at me shyly. No father was in evidence, and I didn't ask. 

The four kids plus Mama Sutterly inhabited a single-story three-bedroom house. I ended up sharing a room with Jesrine, who was annoyed because she had gotten used to having her own room since Cherelle went off to college. The boys were together in another room, and Reanna had a tiny bed in the corner of Mama's room. Most of the family took the crowding as a matter of course, but I hated it. There was no semblance of privacy. 

Frank came by the day after I had settled in. Mama Sutterly was out at the grocery store with Jesrine, and I was supposedly babysitting. Frank sat next to me on the sagging living room couch -- still managing to tower over me even in a sitting position -- and explained earnestly why I _had_ to be in love with him. 

Well, I had no hesitation about being rude if that was what it took to get through to the guy. "Look," I told him bluntly. "You need to face the facts. *I don't remember you.* Chances are I never will. And frankly, the way you've been acting, I don't know what Ch -- what I ever saw in you in the first place." 

He gaped at me. Apparently talk like that wasn't characteristic of Cherelle. "You . . . what? What did you say?" 

"You're smothering me, Frank. You need to back off and let me figure this out on my own." 

He still wasn't getting it. "Baby, how can you talk to me like that? After all we been through together?" He leaned closer, his fingers digging into my biceps. 

Just then Dareth -- or Darnell, I wasn't sure -- came charging into the room, shrieking "Wallace has the ball! He dribbles it the length of the court -- he shoots --" 

The undersized red-white-and-blue basketball bounced off the side of Frank's head. I had to stifle a laugh. 

The other twin caught the ball before it could roll into the kitchen. "Jordan gets it on the rebound! He shoots -- he scores!" 

The ball went into the little woven-wicker trashbasket, knocking it on its side. 

Frank's face darkened, and he opened his mouth to yell. 

"Boys! Pick up that trash," I said quickly before Frank could speak. "And I thought you were supposed to be playing quietly in your room?" I took the opportunity to pull out of Frank's grasp and put some distance between us. 

"But Sherry --" Darnell whined. Or maybe it was Dareth. 

"-- there's no basket in our room," the other boy finished. 

"Then take the bag out of the trash, tie it up and take it out to the dumpster, and _then_ you can use the trash basket. Only until Mama gets home, though. And while you're at it, you can empty the kitchen trash too." 

Still complaining, the boys took out the trash. 

"I think you should leave, Frank," I said firmly when we were alone again. 

"Sherry, honey --" 

"*No,*" I snapped. "Unless you can listen to reason, I don't want to see you again." 

He blinked. "Can't I even visit you, babe?" 

"Only when Mama's around. Right now I have enough to do watching the kids. I should go check on Reanna now." 

The boys trooped back in to claim their wicker prize, and I more or less pushed Frank out the door. The baby, fortunately, was still napping. I sagged back onto the couch, my still-weak muscles trembling with exhaustion. I really wasn't cut out to be a big sister, much less a bride. When I checked my arm, the bruises from Frank's fingers were barely visible on my brown skin -- but I could feel every one. 

The whole family went to church on Sunday morning. It was a Baptist church with a primarily African-American congregation -- one of the ones that had been threatened in the bombing campaign a couple years back. It couldn't possibly have been more different from the ornate, stiff-starched Catholic church my own family had attended before my mother left. This building was full of children and teenagers, all encouraged to make a joyful noise. Even the adults chimed in frequently during the service with "Amen!" and "Praise him!" at random intervals. The choir was about half as big as the congregation itself, and struck up a new song every five minutes. In his sermon, the minister talked about me -- or Cherelle -- as an example of God's miraculous works. After the service, I had to endure congratulations from what seemed like hundreds of well-wishers, many of them quite surprised when I didn't recognize them. It was a relief to get back to the cramped and crowded Sutterly home. 

* * *

Jesrine, who shook me awake in the mornings, was the one to discover the blood spots in my bed after I had been there about a week. I stared at the stains in alarm, wondering what could be wrong with my borrowed body. I didn't guess the significance until Jesrine spoke up in disgust. 

"Aw, Jeez, Sherry, can't you be a little more careful?" 

"Huh?" I said blankly. 

"Well, you should have known. You always get cramps the day before!" 

"Oh. Oh!" I gulped. This aspect of it had never occurred to me. "I thought it was just my muscles aching from the physio." Actually, I had thought Mama's cooking was disagreeing with me, but I didn't say anything. 

Jesrine gave a windy sigh and started to strip the sheets from the bed. 

Something was trickling down my thigh. "Um, Jesrine?" I said tentatively. "Do you know what, um, I mean -- where's the stuff?" 

I didn't even know what _stuff_ to ask for, or what names women might use for the things between themselves. Jesrine stomped into the bathroom and showed me the stash of tampons in the back of the cupboard. "I _better_ not be late for school because of cleaning up after you!" she snarled, handing me the little box. "And don't be spending too long in here, either. Other folks need the bathroom too, y'know." 

I looked at the package doubtfully. Carolyn had always told me she hated tampons, but she was also incredibly choosy about which of those feminine napkin things she would use. Three times early in our marriage, she had sent me out to buy the pads for her, and three times I had brought back the wrong brand or the wrong sub-sub-species. Finally she had become resigned to doing that part of the shopping herself. 

I followed the directions on the tampon packet and then spent the next five minutes scrubbing blood out from under my fingertips. The cramps were back again, low in my belly and back. It wasn't really like a pulled muscle, but not like a food reaction, either. The pain wasn't terribly severe, but the irregular way it would come and go made it hard to ignore. 

The next few days were distinctly unpleasant. I must have gone through three rolls of toilet paper just by myself -- and I had thought I was using a lot with each bathroom visit before this! I discovered why Carolyn hated tampons, but my attempts to use pads instead just resulted in more spotted sheets. I needed the tampons anyway for my daily physical therapy sessions in the pool. As a man, I had never thought about such things as sharing a pool with  
menstruating women, even when my Sentinel senses had informed me of the cycle of every woman in the PD. I tried not to think about it now that I had first-hand experience of just how messy it could be. At least I already knew the best methods for getting blood out of fabric, even if my lessons had been learned in a very different school. 

I still couldn't understand women's urge to talk about the whole subject. It was even more embarrassing to experience than it was to hear about, and I had no wish to discuss it with anyone. Fortunately Jesrine, for all her worldly air, was not quite old enough to commiserate, and Mama Sutterly was giving me plenty of space. 

* * *

Another week went by, and still I bided my time with the Sutterlys. I had my strategy all laid out, down to minute details and various contingencies, but I had made no move to implement it. I tried telling myself that I was waiting for the right moment, trying to gain a little more muscle tone -- waiting for the menstruation business to be over, at least! But I knew what it really was: the old pre-mission funk. I knew what I had to do, but I hadn't gotten up the nerve for it yet. 

It wasn't as if this had never happened to me before, but in the army I always had commanders or subordinates whose expectations pulled me along until I was in the thick of things. This time no one knew what I was doing -- and if I was successful, that was how it would stay. There was no one around to whip up my morale and get me going. 

Part of it was the hypnotic effect of worrying about what could go wrong. There were plenty of things I could mess up, even conceivably making the situation worse. I wasn't looking forward to finding out, for example, that maybe I *couldn't* switch bodies back. Or if I had to fall back on contingency and get help from Simon, I didn't want to think about his reaction to the mess I had ended up in. 

But most of my fears revolved around what I had planned for Sandburg, assuming everything _did_ go right. It just wasn't an easy thing to wrap my head around. 

Sandburg was an attractive enough guy -- I could see that. It wasn't so much his looks, although I had always had a sneaking desire to run my hands through that mass of hair. It was more his manner with people, and how easy he was to get along with. I already knew how soothing he could be to an overloaded Sentinel; now I was finding out that he had a gift for reassuring a stranger exiled from his own body, even if Sandburg had no clue that was what he was doing. It also helped that he wasn't a big meaty hulk of a guy, even though he was several inches taller than my present form. 

Attraction I could deal with. Flirting wasn't a problem -- I'd already tried that, and it was kind of fun. But every time I tried to prepare myself mentally for the possibility of actual sex, my brain just shut down. Maybe it didn't count as homosexuality while I was in this body -- maybe it wouldn't be a crime even if I _did_ get turned on. But I would still be entered, possessed -- fucked, to put it plainly, and the idea didn't exactly mesh with my self-image. 

I tried to talk myself into a more reasonable frame of mind. I told myself that it might not actually come down to sex. And if it did, I had already decided that this was the best way to go about it. I had to get close to Sandburg so that I could protect him, without making him suspect what was going on with Secrist. I had figured it all out \-- now I just needed to go and _do_ it. 

In the end, it wasn't my own mental pep-talks that did the trick. Three things happened almost at once that spurred me into action. 

Firstly, I called the hospital and found out that "Jim Ellison" would be released in a few days. With a little finessing and my newly-mastered innocent-little-girl voice, I learned that the wounded hero would be discharged into his father's care. That meant that at least he wouldn't be living in close proximity to Sandburg, the person most likely to figure out that Jim wasn't Jim. But I still didn't have much time left to work with. 

Secondly, Frank got more persistent. After both Mama and I had asked him for the third time not to visit the house anymore, he came to church. The choir was just swinging into their second rousing hymn when Frank sidled into the pew and crowded up next to me, grinning eagerly. 

Mama told him off after the service, scolding him for using the Lord's worship as a cover for him to pursue me. But Frank had made all the correct respectful noises to the minister, and after all, it was a public gathering. We couldn't legally order him to stay away. 

The third thing was that Mama found out my secret. Or part of it, anyway. 

We were in the kitchen late on Sunday night, after the kids had gone to bed. I was emptying the dish rack; Mama was taking the plates out of the cupboard as quickly as I put them away, setting the table in preparation for breakfast tomorrow. She put a hand on my arm and gestured to the table. 

"Sit down, honey. We gotta talk." 

I wiped my hands on a towel and sank into one of the hard-backed chairs. "Is something wrong?" I was thinking about money; Mama Sutterly only worked three days a week cleaning other people's houses, and I had seen the state the household accounts were in when I tried to balance the checkbook. I didn't want to think about what Cherelle's hospital bills must have done to the family finances. 

"You ain't really Cherelle, are you?" 

My face went hot and my heart began to pound. "What? I -- I don't know what you mean. You said -- in the hospital, they told me --" 

"Hush, child. Don't be afraid, I ain't gonna bite. But I know my daughter, and you ain't her. You don't move like her and you don't talk like her." 

"Well, I don't remember what I was like before --" 

"You remember how to read and write, and you do math better than Sherry ever did, but you don't know the littlest things about bein' a woman. Now, how's amnesia gonna make you forget that?" 

I gulped. 

"Now, I talked to Dr. Broward at the hospital, and he told me how you said you'd been sent by the Lord to help someone --" 

"Damn him!" I hissed. 

Mama Sutterly puffed up like an outraged hen. "CherELLE SUTTerly! Or whoever you are -- it don't matter, but you will NOT use language like that in my home!" 

I ducked my head. "I'm sorry, Mama. I was just . . . angry. That conversation with Dr. Broward was supposed to be private." 

"Hmmph!" she snorted, settling down a little. "I suppose if he hadn't told me, you woulda kept quiet about it, huh?" 

"I didn't want to upset you --" 

"Never mind that. Is it true? Did the Lord send you?" 

I studied the tabletop, guiltily trying to formulate an answer that wouldn't be a complete lie. 

"Are you an angel?" she asked. 

"No!" I yelped in surprise. "Of course not. I'm just -- just . . . I don't know how I got here, Mama, or who sent me or why. You're right, I'm not Cherelle. But I feel like . . . there's someone I have to help. I just know it." 

"This detective you told the doctor about?" 

I lifted my head. "Not him. I think it's the detective's partner, Blair Sandburg. I met him in the hospital, and I have this feeling he's in terrible danger. I just know it, Mama, and I have to help him." 

She nodded slowly. "So why haven't you done anything about it?" 

I blinked. "I wasn't sure how to start. Or what to tell you . . ." 

She chuckled. "You've told me, dear. Sounds like now is a good time to get started." She stood up and patted my arm. "You get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow you find this Blair person. There ain't no use putting off what the Lord has called us to do." 

I stared at her. "Doesn't it . . . bother you?" 

Her face turned grave, and she sank back into her chair. "The Lord knows how much I would give to have my daughter back," she said slowly. "But it must be that it doesn't suit the Lord's purpose for Sherry to be here with us now. I spent two months in that hospital, honey, looking at my baby's face and praying she wasn't lost to me forever. All the doctors tried to tell me she was gone. But now -- now I've got you here. And it's something, which is a whole lot better than nothing. Maybe it's a chance to say goodbye to my baby, at the very least. Or could be, when you've done what you were sent to do, I'll get my Cherelle back. Until then . . . well. If the Lord wants to borrow her body while Sherry ain't using it, I won't be the one to deny him. No good can ever come of resistin' God's plan. You remember that, honey. Do what you've been called to do." She slapped my thigh lightly. "Now get yourself to bed, young lady, and don't tell me you ain't tired, 'cause I can see those bags under your eyes." 

My eyes were stinging. I stood up and pressed a kiss to Mama Sutterly's smooth brown cheek. "Thank you, Mama," I whispered. "Thanks for understanding." 

I hurried off to Jesrine's room, fighting unfamiliar tears all the way. 

* * *

The Army gave me a comfortable pre-mission routine to fall back on, though it was a little different in this case. First, assemble your materials and prepare for the mission. I dug through Cherelle's closet for some nice clothes. There was a long skirt in a rich coppery-red color that would work if I belted it tight, and a lacy cream-colored blouse that had probably never fit her because it was just barely too big now. I was no big expert on women's fashions, but in the mirror the combination seemed to fall somewhere between artsy and folksy. It would catch Sandburg's eye. 

I shaved the curly black hairs from my lower legs, eventually deciding to leave the upper legs alone. Legs seemed a bit easier to shave than a rugged jawline, but there was more territory and more room for mistakes -- and I still wasn't too coordinated in this new body. 

I picked a rich dark lipstick out of Cherelle's stash and learned to apply it passably well after a few false starts. I considered eye makeup, but it seemed to present too many possibilities for disaster. I didn't want to ask Mama Sutterly for help, and I certainly wasn't going to appeal to Jesrine. Lipstick would be enough. Fortunately, Cherelle had an excellent complexion, and Sandburg was a big fan of the clean-faced look. 

Once I was ready, I had to corner my prey without alerting him to the hunt. That took me a while. I knew all of Sandburg's usual hangouts, but it seemed he wasn't hanging out these days. Probably he was still spending a lot of time at the hospital, which only made my mission more urgent. Eventually, the best I could think of was to stake out his office. 

The student union had large windows facing toward Hargrove Hall across an expanse of green and a fountain. If I sat at the corner table, I could see the lot where Sandburg usually parked. I set myself up with one of Cherelle's psychology textbooks, and waited. 

I thought another day had been wasted until, just as the setting sun cast its rays across the quad, a familiar blue-and-white truck pulled into the lot. I spared a moment for outrage -- who the hell told him he could drive my truck? -- then snatched up my book and hurried outside. 

I almost had to run to get there in time, but it worked out perfectly. I collided with him right at the base of the steps, and my book went tumbling down along with several fliers and the class schedule I had gathered for show. "Oh!" I gasped. "I'm sorry!" I started to collect the papers, sniffling and rubbing at my eyes. 

"No, it was my fault, let me help --" he froze. "Sherry?" 

"What? Oh, Blair! I'm sorry, I should have been watching where I was going." I sniffed again. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

I shrugged. "I just had a meeting with my academic advisor. He said I have to start all over again, since I can't remember anything. In fact, he said I should wait another semester and then take some placement tests and see if I even _belong_ here at all." 

"That's awful!" Blair exclaimed. 

"He said I might need remedial work --" I went on pitifully, then ducked my head and went back to gathering papers. 

"Here, let me carry that for you. Come inside with me," he said. 

"What? Oh, no, I shouldn't take any more of your time." 

"It's no bother. Come on, my office is right in here." 

He led me to his office, made me sit in his chair, and put water on to boil for hot chocolate. "Now, let's look at this one piece at a time," he said firmly. "You know, waiting another semester might not be such a bad idea. That would let you start out in the fall, with everyone else. And as for the placement tests, I'm sure you'll do just fine . . ." He proceeded to talk me out of the dumps I would have been in, if I had really been Cherelle and hadn't made up the entire story about the advisor. 

I had been undercover before, but this was more difficult. As a girl I was expected to be more emotional; the old Ellison poker-face wouldn't work here. And I was deceiving a friend when what I really wanted was to confide everything to him. I reminded myself firmly of what was at stake and tried to appear as if I'd been successfully cheered up. 

Right on cue, my stomach growled. Not so surprising, since I'd had nothing all day but some vending-machine crackers with cheese. Sandburg met my eyes, and we both cracked up at once. 

"I don't have any food here," he managed at last. "How about we go out for some dinner? My treat?" 

I protested once, then let myself be talked into it. Sandburg was really pouring on the charm, just as I'd hoped. 

I let Sandburg choose, and he picked dim sum -- of course. I had learned to hate Chinese food years ago, but I'd never told Sandburg that fact. The story was too long and complicated, and half of it was classified anyway. Actually, his enjoyment had brought back some of mine, and I was learning to appreciate the food again. It was always easy to keep Sandburg talking to cover my discomfort. 

"So what are you studying?" he asked me. 

"Oh. Well, I really don't remember," I said. "Not really. But apparently I was about to declare a major in psychology. That makes sense -- I know I'm interested in people and what makes them tick." 

He leaned forward. "Have you considered anthropology?" 

"Um. I don't know. You think it would be a good idea?" 

That did it. Blair had a topic he could discuss for the next hour, easily. He told me all about the wonders of comparative cultural studies, throwing in a few anecdotes about interesting tribes while he was at it. By the time the check arrived, _I_ was almost ready to drop everything and become an anthropologist. Cherelle would have been convinced in an instant. 

"Actually," he told me, "Rainier's anthro department is unique in this country. Most people divide anthropology into several subfields -- cultural, physical, and historical anthropology. And different people, or different departments, will specialize in one or the other. But Rainier encourages a multi-disciplinary approach. It's really revolutionary. Take my thesis, for example --" 

"What's it about?" I asked innocently. 

He froze, just for an instant. "Um. Social subcultures in closed societies. Oh, look, fortune cookies!" He grabbed one and tossed me the other. 

I looked at the confection in my hands. This was the part of American-Chinese restaurant culture that I hated the most. When I was in the Rangers I had been involved in a covert operation, giving supervision and backup to an operative tracking a suspected arms dealer. He had developed a way to exchange messages via fortune cookies, and I had ended up having dinner at a particular Chinese restaurant every night for a month. Then one day the message in my cookie said 'Tell your Colonel we don't like spies.' And the next morning my operative was found in several pieces. Since then, I had a definite distaste for fortune cookies. 

"'Lose an old friend, find an old friend,'" Blair read. "That's weird. Shouldn't it be 'Find a new friend?' What's yours, Sherry?" 

"Why do you say it like that?" 

"Say what like what?" 

"My name. SherRY." I imitated his pronunciation. 

"Isn't that how it's supposed to be? It's French for 'dear one.'" 

I blinked. I had been thinking of wines, but of course I'd never seen the nickname written out anywhere. "C H E R I?" I guessed. I had only taken a year of French in junior high before switching to Spanish -- mostly to outrage my father. Lower-class kids took Spanish, not Ellisons. My perfect grades hadn't appeased him a bit. 

"With an E on the end. That makes it feminine," Sandburg told me with a sultry smile. 

"Oh, right." Inwardly I reminded myself to leave off the E. 

"So what about your fortune cookie?" 

I forced myself to smile. "It says, 'Help! I'm a prisoner in a fortune cookie factory!'" 

Blair snorted and grabbed the slip of paper from my hands. "'Tread carefully on the narrow path between danger and deception.' That's pretty grim." 

"It's just a mass-produced platitude," I said with a shrug. 

His eyebrows went up. "Now you sound like my mother." 

I choked on my tea. Me, sound like Naomi? 

Blair's eyes crinkled as he watched me laugh. 

"Blair," I said quickly, before I could lose my nerve, "can I come home with you tonight?" 

He looked surprised. *Whoops, too fast,* I thought 

"I mean -- I just feel so comfortable with you!" I explained. "At home, with my mother and my brothers and sisters -- they remind me every time I speak or act differently than I used to. I keep trying to figure out who I'm _supposed_ to be, instead of who I am. With you I don't need to worry about that." 

"I don't know . . ." he said uncertainly. 

"You look like you could use some company, too," I told him. I tried for sad puppy-dog eyes modeled after Blair's own, but I wasn't sure how it would look on Cherelle's face. 

In any case, it seemed to do the trick. "Well, that's true . . ." he admitted. "Okay. Come on, let's go." 

And there I was, letting a boy take me home on the first date. If it hadn't been so serious, I could have laughed. Or cried. 

It was strange stepping into the loft; everything was so much bigger. I was getting used to being shorter than everyone else, and I had adapted to ceilings being so far above my head, but this was different. Even clambering up into the passenger seat of my truck hadn't been this much of a shock. I had lived in this loft for over six years now. I could find my way around the place blindfolded, even without Sentinel senses. Now, all the proportions were magnified and the place seemed huge, echoing with emptiness. 

Then Blair stepped through the door behind me, and it was home again \-- just a little more so. "Well, this is it!" he said breathlessly. 

"It's nice. Very spacious." I looked for something to comment on. "Are those your weights?" 

"No, they're Jim's. He uses them when he can't get to the gym." 

I eyed the set of free weights greedily. "Do you think he would mind if I used them? I need to cut back on the PT, but I can't really afford a gym membership either." 

Blair bit his lip. "Actually, he probably would mind. He's very touchy about anyone messing with his things. Or he was, before . . . I guess he probably won't remember exactly how he left them." 

I struggled between a sense of outrage that Blair would let a casual acquaintance -- which was what I was in my Cherelle persona -- use my belongings, versus the feeling that they were _my_ weights and he'd better not tell me not to touch them. "I can put all the settings back exactly the same way," I promised. "So . . ." What to talk about? "You share this place with --" 

"With Jim, yeah. It's his place, actually. He let me have the spare room when I didn't have anywhere else to go, and, well . . . I guess he forgot to kick me out." 

My lips twitched. Sandburg knew perfectly well that he had a home here as long as he was willing to stay. 

Or perhaps he didn't know. "I'm not sure what will happen when Jim gets back. He's going to his Dad's place after he gets out of the hospital, but eventually he's going to want his own home." 

"He still doesn't remember you?" I prompted. 

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disordered. "No, he doesn't. And it's like he doesn't even _want_ to know me. He's so cold! He's been having a lot of trouble with . . . and he won't let me help!" 

It was smoothly done. If I hadn't been expecting the words "his senses," I might not have noticed the gap. Anyone who did catch the little bobble would probably have guessed that Jim was having some kind of masculine trouble, although that opened a whole new can of worms when Blair said he wanted to help. 

Now he was pacing the living room floor, stabbing the air with his gestures. "I keep trying to tell Jim I can help him, but he won't listen. He lets the doctors give him all kinds of drugs even though I warned him about reactions. He zones out on the pain and won't let me help. He talks to his _father_ instead." 

Interesting. So, after more than two weeks, Secrist was still having trouble dealing with my Sentinel senses, eh? I filed that fact away and went to work calming Sandburg. "Hey, take it easy, Ch -- Blair. Here, sit down. Come on." I patted the couch until he settled next to me. "Now, you helped me earlier. So let's look at this one piece at a time, all right? Maybe Jim just needs some space so he can figure things out for himself. I'm sure it's nothing personal. Why don't you just leave him alone for a while -- let him deal with his father. He'll come around pretty soon, I bet." 

"You think?" Blair looked doubtful. 

"I'm sure of it. He didn't have a brain injury like me, did he? Well, then, his memory's bound to come back soon. And once it does he'll probably be sorry for pushing you away. But right now the best you can do is to back off and give him whatever time he needs." I was trying to persuade Sandburg to stay away from Secrist and at the same time prepare him for a miraculous 'recovery' when I finally got my body back. 

"Maybe you're right," he admitted. 

"Of course I'm right." I stood up. "Would you like some coffee or a beer or something?" 

He blinked. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?" 

"Oh. Right." I sat down again. "So do you have any beer?" 

He laughed. "Coming right up." Then he paused. "Are you even twenty-one?" 

I managed to keep my startlement from showing. I hadn't even thought of that. "Sure," I said casually, doing some hasty calculations. "I'm a junior -- well, I was a junior. Now I suppose I'm going to be a freshman again." 

He handed me a bottle. "I thought you said you hadn't declared your major yet -- aren't you putting it off pretty late?" 

I gulped at the bottle hastily. "I don't remember. I thought my advisor told me I hadn't declared yet -- but he said a lot of things today, and I didn't hear much after he told me I had to start over." 

Blair nodded sympathetically, and I took another long swig. I really needed the artificial courage, and a bottle would probably pack twice the punch on Cherelle's smaller body. The stuff tasted horrible, though \-- I wasn't sure why. It was my usual brand, and it wasn't as if my sense of taste was overdeveloped now. Perhaps Cherelle had simply never acquired a taste for beer -- could that affect me somehow? 

I finished my bottle before Blair was halfway through his, and let him get me another. 

The evening passed in haze of the best conversation I had ever known. Blair did most of the talking, which was fine with me. We discussed anthropology, sports (I kept forgetting to keep up the faulty-memory pretense, but Blair didn't seem to notice), and Jim. Blair went on at great length about Jim, what a great guy he was, how he was the best detective in the city -- maybe the state -- and what complicated cases they had worked on together. Even buzzed, Blair got the details right and always remembered to gloss over the Sentinel stuff. Sometimes he made the bad guys out to be bigger, tougher, or better shots than they really had been -- but that, I reasoned, was just embellishment. I listened to the stories with a warm glow of pride in my gut. Or maybe it was just the beer. 

From there, it all happened very smoothly. First, we were sitting on the couch facing each other and arguing about the Jags' lineup for this season, then Blair had one arm slung behind my back while his other hand drew examples of Olmec architecture in the air, then we were giggling in each other's arms at the story of the freon smugglers on the ferry \-- and then he was kissing me. 

It wasn't like Frank's slimy kisses. Blair used mostly lip at first, his tongue only darting out for brief tantalizing brushes. He had the pacing right, varying from intense face-sucking to gentle lip-nibbles just as I got out of breath. And he tasted good. At least I thought he did -- I couldn't really get a good taste of him. I kept trying to dial my senses up, but it wouldn't work. At last, he stopped teasing me with his tongue and got down to some serious business. He tasted like beer, and Chinese, and wetrichBlair . . . and suddenly I couldn't breathe. 

I was kissing a man. 

I was kissing _Sandburg_. 

I pushed him away and gasped for air. 

"Are you okay? Cheri? What's wrong?" 

I nodded. "I'm fine. Just . . . a little nervous, I guess." 

His eyebrows rose into his hair, but his hands rubbed soothing circles on my shoulders. "Nervous, huh? I've been less scared than that dodging bullets from a semi-automatic." That, I knew, was going beyond embellishment right into obfuscation. 

"Well, I've never done this before," I admitted unwisely. 

"You _what_?!" His voice rose an octave. 

"That I can remember, I mean," I amended. 

He narrowed his eyes. "You're not a -- a virgin, are you?" He said the word not with disgust, but with a certain hypnotic terror. 

"Of course not." I thought about Frank's pushiness. "I think." I thought about the tampons. "No, I'm certain I'm not. I've done this sort of thing before, it's just -- different now, that's all." And that was literally true; petting and frenching on the couch was old stuff to me, but making out with a man, _as_ a woman, was something different entirely. 

"Uh-huh," said Sandburg slowly. "Look, maybe we shouldn't do this tonight." 

He was going to send me away. "No!" I couldn't mess this up -- not with Secrist getting out of the hospital tomorrow. "I want this. Really." Gathering my courage, I pressed closer to him. "And it'll be nice. Think about it -- my first time, as far as I can remember, but no pain." 

I had only been with a virgin once, when I had only had a little experience myself. I had heard that it didn't have to be painful, but for her it was, and I was frightened away from virgins ever since. If anything like that was going through Sandburg's mind, I wanted to nip it in the bud. 

"Come on," I purred into his neck. "Give me something worth remembering." I nibbled at the skin under his ear, and he shivered against me. 

He smelled nice. It was only a faint echo of what I had picked up with Sentinel senses, but now it was easier to isolate one portion of his body at a time. His neck smelled sweet. His jaw was aftershave-sharp. I wanted to explore further down, so I undid the top button of his shirt and nuzzled into the opening. 

*I'm making out with Sandburg* flashed through my mind again, but it carried only a fraction of the panic from the first time the thought had hit me. It was getting easier now. Next time it occurred to me, I would probably think it was cool. 

He pulled me up for another kiss, and we locked lips for a few minutes. This time I used my own tongue to go in search of his taste, and it was delicious. When we parted for air, he gave me an adorable shy grin and bent down to explore my neck in turn. I tilted my chin back so he could reach the buttons of my blouse. 

As he worked his way down my chest, my hands twined in his hair -- deep, silky, and luxurious. With small hands I could burrow even further into the strands, and they seemed to go on forever. 

Then he slipped a hand inside my bra, squeezing gently and pinching the nipple between two fingers. I felt a sudden unexpected tightness between my legs, and I gasped. 

Making love to a man -- I was adapting to that idea. But being turned on as a woman was just plain weird. 

He paused and looked up at me, sensing my tension. I ran a tongue around dry lips and nodded to him. "Feels good," I gasped. "Keep going." 

His left hand stayed on my breast, stroking it gently, while the other undid the rest of the buttons. Then he was brushing the blouse back off my shoulders and leaning forward to press butterfly-soft kisses along my collarbone. 

I shivered. I was definitely turning on, but it was such a strange feeling \-- so internal. The excitement seemed to climb right up into my belly and sit there quivering. 

My bra straps were pushed down as easily as the blouse had disappeared. Now his hand had freer access to my right breast, and his gentle kisses were moving down in the direction of my other breast, a little tongue putting in an appearance now and then. 

As soon as he suckled me, I turned into jello. I was weak and melting, but that shivering core of tension remained in my middle. His lips seemed to be pulling on a string that went right down through the center of me to that diffuse place of excitement. 

As a man, I had never gotten much of a charge from having my nipples sucked. Oh, they were sensitive, all right -- especially after the Sentinel thing kicked in. But it was never in a sexual way. Now I was beginning to get the idea. If only a few men felt only a shadow of this when their tits were sucked, it must add quite a charge to their sex life. 

He switched his mouth to my other breast, his thumb moving in sweet circles around the nipple he had just abandoned. The tightness was all through my belly now and spreading to the insides of my thighs. I barely noticed him unfastening the bra and tossing it aside. I was sprawled back against the couch, unable to do anything but enjoy. I still had a hand in his hair, the softness tickling my palm -- but I couldn't manage any sort of coherent motion. The muscles I had just spent two weeks working into a semblance of working strength had  
suddenly given out. 

Then he was heading down my stomach, his mouth seeking out spots that made me gasp. My left side seemed to be more sensitive than my right \-- almost too sensitive. I squirmed as his beard stubble tickled me, and he ranged back toward less unstable terrain. 

I was expecting him to undo my belt and skirt, but when he reached my navel he just flipped the skirt up and ducked underneath. I couldn't see what he was doing, but it felt like he just pushed the panties to one side. The feel of his ribs between my thighs ratcheted my tension up even further. 

And then he touched me. 

Warm, gentle fingers sweetly skimmed my flesh. At first he wasn't even touching the skin, just brushing over the hairs, sensitizing everything. Then he stroked ever so softly across the skin, finding the moisture and spreading it around. Gradually, he began to rub a little deeper into the flesh underneath, but always he kept to the outside, never venturing near the center. 

I wasn't entirely sure of the geography. I had seen it and touched it on plenty of women, but it was hard matching mental images up with sensations. But I knew what he was doing when I felt fingers spread me open, and I clawed at the cushions in anticipation. 

His mouth fastened on me, so warm over the moistness that had begun to cool in the air. He started with his tongue down low, and I knew where he was because I ached to be entered there. I moaned. Then he ran in a long slow sweep upward, and when he reached the top I yelled. 

He was good -- oh, very good. I had done this for many women before, but I wasn't sure my technique could match up to his. He started with broad, deep, slow strokes of the tongue around the little bud, revving me up until my thighs and stomach trembled with the need for release. Then when I was completely warmed up, he found the very most sensitive spot, got the tip of his tongue right against it, and moved so swiftly and sharply that I was sobbing as my hips came up off the couch. 

The pleasure and sensation were centered in one tiny space, but the climax happened all over. I felt it in my chest, where it seemed as if a hand was clutching my heart. I felt it in my thighs, clamped up against his body so tightly that I could feel him breathe. And I felt it roaring up through the center of me into my belly like a swift-burning fire. 

I fell back panting against the couch, muscles exhausted. My pulse pounded in my ears; the loft swam slowly into focus around me. 

He pulled his head out from under my skirt and shook the hair from his eyes. "Was that a first?" he asked cheerily, wiping moisture from his chin. 

I gulped. "Far as I know." 

"Good." He plopped down on the couch next to me. I glanced down at his crotch and wondered how he could move around so easily in jeans that tight. "That was round one. Shall we move to a cozier venue?" 

"Huh?" My higher vocabulary functions had shut down for the time being. 

His hand curved around one of my breasts, and he spoke more plainly. "I have everything we need in my bedroom. Why don't we go to bed?" 

"Oh, uh, sounds good." My legs had gotten a workout, and they weren't sure about providing the power to stand or walk. I levered myself up on the arm of the couch and managed a few tottering steps towards the french doors. 

Blair appeared in front of me. "You won't be needing that," he promised, and deftly unfastened my belt. The skirt and panties were left behind. Naked, I followed him into his room. 

I should have gotten the idea by now, but I was surprised once again when I stepped in his room to find it less cramped than I remembered. When I sat on the edge of his bed, the futon seemed cozy -- just right for the two of us, as long as we stayed close to each other. 

Blair was undoing his shirt. "Hold it," I said, just as he reached the bottom button. 

"What?" He looked bewildered. 

"It's my turn now. Come here." 

When he was standing over me, he seemed huge. But my legs were still too rubbery to stand, so I patted the bed beside me. He sat facing me with one knee hitched up between us. I brushed the shirt back off his shoulders so I could see him. 

I already knew his chest was hairy and masculine, but I had only gotten a few brief glimpses of it since that time I taped his ribs up. He seemed to have muscled up in the meantime; I wondered if he had been working out in secret. 

I stretched out a hand to touch, when I was assailed by uncertainty. "I'm not sure what to do," I admitted. 

"Do whatever you want, whatever feels right," he murmured. 

*Riiight.* How many times had I said that to a woman, when what I really wanted to do was get my pants off and get down to business? But now here I was on the other side of the equation, and I wanted to draw it out. I wanted to explore. 

I carded my fingers through the nest of hair across his chest. It curled wildly in every direction, resisting my attempts to tame it. I ran a hand over his shoulder and down his arm, feeling the heaviness of muscle just under his skin. When I was the bigger one, I had never noticed what a sturdy build Blair had: long torso, broad shoulders, short but powerful legs. I spread his fingers open and matched my palm to his, marveling at how much larger his hand was. I wasn't used to thinking of Blair as big. 

But I really should think about getting down to business. I leaned in to kiss him, licking sweetly at his parted lips. I mouthed down along his neck and across his bobbing Adam's apple, feeling the stubble burn my nose and chin. I tongued a path along his collarbone. 

He was leaning back, one hand braced on the bed behind him as he tilted his head back. He was breathing in shallow, panting gasps. Apparently he was having at least some fun, even with his pants still on. 

I brushed a knuckle across one of the nubs peeking out, a smooth island amid a sea of curls. He arched up toward me. 

"Do you like --" 

"Yes!" he gasped. 

*Okay.* His chest hairs tickled my nose as I bent and took the little nubbin in my mouth. Trying to recall what had felt so good just a few minutes ago, I swirled my tongue around it and suckled. He moaned and cupped the back of my head against him. I scraped my teeth gently across it, and he collapsed back on the bed. I had to scramble to get him back again. I felt incredibly powerful as he groaned and writhed beneath me. 

I switched nipples after a few minutes; the first one was fat and red. With one hand I soothed the swollen bud, but soon my fingers began to stray downwards. 

He would have to wear button-flies. I only managed to get the top button undone before he pushed me away and began to writhe frantically, kicking the jeans off as quickly as possible. Then he was nude in front of me, his cock arching up across his belly. 

It looked big, of course; _everything_ looked big to me these days. But it was objectively quite nice -- slender, straight, and well-proportioned. Just the head was rosy with blood, but I knew if I pumped it for a while the whole thing would go purple. 

I touched it uncertainly. It was warm and silky-smooth, a familiar feeling. But in my small hand it seemed huge, and I had never felt that sensation against my palm without feeling the other side of it through my dick at the same time. 

I glanced up at his face. He was staring at me with huge, pleading eyes, too patient to demand anything -- but the strain showed on his face. 

I licked my lips, trying to work up a little spit in my dust-dry mouth. Some women really hated this part, I knew -- and any man who did it was an outcast, at least in the groups I hung out with. But I had to try; I had been in Sandburg's position too many times not to feel for his desperation now. I pulled his cock toward me and bent my head. 

The skin was sweet-sour, hot against my lips. I couldn't get more than the head inside my mouth at first, so I stuck to sweeping my tongue around. I sought out the little spots that were most sensitive for me, not knowing if they would apply to him. Judging from his groans, the broad head of the glans seemed to be more tender in his case; for me it was always the underside. And the little slit on top -- I loved having someone tease that for me, when I was suitably  
excited. I poked just the tip of my tongue into it and waited for Blair's reaction, but I almost missed it in my own response to the harsh taste. Just a tiny drop of fluid seemed to burn my tongue. I pulled back and smacked my lips uneasily. 

His hands were on my head again -- not pulling, just suggesting. I worked up a little more spit and bent down again. This time I tried to see how much I could take in, twisting my head around to get the best angle. Even sucking him in until I almost gagged, I couldn't get further than halfway down the shaft. Maybe my mouth was just small, like the rest of this borrowed body. I kept trying for a few minutes, until I realized the hands on my head were tugging me the other way. 

"Gotta get stuff . . ." he panted. He squirmed out from under me to pull a lovely little carved box out from under the bed. I had to look away to hide a smile; only Sandburg would store condoms in a cultural artifact! 

He got the packet open and fumbled with the little disk. I reached out to help and he pulled away with a wince. 

"Careful!" he yelped. "Hair." 

I grimaced. Some bitch had managed to roll Sandburg's pubic hair up in a condom? No wonder he was a little gun-shy. "I know," I said reassuringly, and carefully pushed the curls aside before rolling the latex down. 

He caught my hand, holding it still until I looked up at him. 

"Are you okay with this? We don't have to go on." 

Well, that was articulate of him. Magnanimous, too, since he had reached that purple stage. I stuffed my uncertainty away and nodded. "I'm fine." 

"Do you want to be on top?" 

I blinked. It might help me feel more in control, but it wouldn't change the act itself. And anyway . . . "My legs are still weak," I confessed. 

"Okay." He pressed me back gently on the bed. "Anytime you need to stop, just say so." 

I wanted to close my eyes, but he was holding them with a direct stare. He reached down and opened me; I was still slick from the deluxe treatment he'd given me earlier. Now he touched the center of me, and I felt that same excitement tighten through my stomach and buttocks. 

He dipped a finger down lower, to the place where I ached with emptiness. I groaned as he pushed in, but a finger wasn't enough. 

"Go on," I whispered. "Do it." 

He moved into position and entered me in one smooth stroke. My eyes went wide as I felt myself filled and stretched. I wrapped my arms behind his shoulders, lifted my legs to twine behind his. 

The books had it all wrong. They talked about a man "taking," "claiming," or "possessing" a woman. But I was the one who completely engulfed Blair, who took him in and consumed him. I was the one who pushed and pulled against him to make it work out as he moved helplessly in the face of his need. 

He stopped at one point, his head buried against my neck, and I wondered if I could possibly have missed his orgasm. But he just raised his head and smiled at me. "How're you doing?" he asked. 

"Good. It feels good," I told him. 

"Hmm. Well, 'good' isn't good enough." He shifted around, leaning his weight on one elbow and reaching down with the other hand. His thumb insinuated itself cleverly between our bodies, and suddenly a spike of pleasure went straight up my spine. I gasped. 

He grinned. "Can you lift your legs higher? Like behind my back?" 

I wasn't sure, since every muscle was already exhausted, but I managed to get my ankles up behind his butt. This changed the angle of his entry, and he began to move in short, sharp thrusts. His hips slapped against the backs of my thighs, his thumb kept up its clever wiggling, and _something_ indefinite was happening deep inside that was winding me up like a spring. I whimpered and gasped and dug my fingers into his shoulders. 

"Blair . . ." 

He was smiling broadly enough to split his face. "You like that, Cheri?" he murmured huskily. "You going to come for me? Going to come with me?" 

"Yessss . . . more," I begged. 

He thrust faster, pressed harder with his thumb. I ground my head back against the mattress. I could feel it rising inside me, just as it had before -- all through my chest and stomach, in my legs and arms where I held him. 

"Blair . . . Blair, please." 

"That's it, Cheri. Give it to me." He was breathing in swift pants. "Open your eyes. C-come on, look at me." 

I forced my eyes open. His face was flushed, damp hairs sticking to his forehead -- he was beautiful. 

"You ready? Almost there, Cheri. Ahhhlmost . . . there! Yes! Come with me!" His eyes were half-lidded as his hips juddered against me. I could feel his cock jerking, right down inside me. 

It pushed me over the edge, and I cried out. "Oh god, Chief, it feels so g-good! Yes!" 

We lay still for a minute afterwards, panting and grinning like idiots. My muscles felt like pudding. Blair rolled off me and got rid of the condom. When I realized he had stopped moving I turned my head in his direction. He was watching me with a strange, sober expression. 

"Hey," I said. "That was great. I loved it." 

He didn't move. 

I held out a hand. "Come here. Come back to bed." 

He lay down and I rolled to tuck my head in the crook of his shoulder and sling my arm across his chest. I couldn't see his face from where I was lying, but he still seemed disturbed by something. 

"It was beautiful, Blair. A wonderful first time." I yawned against his chest. "Wore me out," I chuckled. And before I could find out what was bothering him, I fell asleep. 

I couldn't have slept long, but I woke feeling refreshed and uncomplicatedly happy. I grinned stupidly at the ceiling for a few minutes, then turned to share my happiness with Sandburg. 

He wasn't there. 

Reflexively, I tried to extend my hearing to find him, but it stayed at the same muffled level. He wasn't doing anything that I could easily hear -- not puttering around in the kitchen or anything. 

I slipped out from under the covers to look for him, and froze when I realized I was completely naked. I couldn't even remember where half my clothes had ended up. I found Blair's old threadbare flannel bathrobe hanging by the door and slipped it on. It reached past my knees and smelled of Blair. 

It was dark when I stepped through the door. I could make out a glint of light off the polished surface of the table, but no details. Nothing moving. I stepped out carefully, conscious that my landmarks were further apart than they were supposed to be. There was a light switch on the kitchen island, if I could just find it -- there! The track lights over the stove came on. 

I turned toward the living room and saw a shadowed figure on the couch. "Blair?" I moved towards him. "Is something wrong?" 

He didn't move. "No, nothing's wrong," he said in muffled tones. He was fully dressed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. 

"What's the matter, couldn't you sleep?" I had never thought of Sandburg as a post-coital-depression kind of guy. From what I'd always seen, he was more in the shit-eating-grin category. But maybe that didn't kick in until a few hours later. 

He lifted his head slowly. "I had something to think about." 

"Oh." Suddenly I wanted to strangle Secrist for hurting Blair's feelings, even though it was the best possible thing that could have happened. "Can I make you some tea or something?" 

"Sure. Whatever," he said dully. 

I got the kettle down from its cupboard, filled it with the filtered water from the fridge, and set it to boil. There were a couple of dishes in the sink, rinsed but not clean -- probably from breakfast today. I washed them quickly, throwing glances toward Blair's still form. I wished I knew what else I could do to make him feel better. 

Just as the kettle started to rumble and pop, he got up and started sorting through his stash of teas. His movements were unnaturally slow as he lifted down a mug. I came up behind him and raised a hand to touch his shoulder or back the way I normally would -- then it struck me that I didn't have to limit myself to little pats. I could touch Blair as much as I wanted, and no one would call us perverted for it. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek between his shoulder blades. Heat ignited between our skins, warming me through. 

"Pour some for me too, will you?" I breathed into his shirt. 

He slammed the mug onto the counter, making me jump back. "You hate this stuff, Jim. Quit pretending already." 

I stared at his back, unable to say anything. Protests of innocence died before they reached my lips. 

Sandburg turned around and stared at me with the bitterest expression I had ever seen on his face. "Aren't you going to deny it?" he asked sourly, leaning back against the counter. 

I shook my head weakly. "How -- how did you know?" 

"You mean besides you calling me 'Chief' at the height of passion?" 

*Oh, shit.* 

"You called me 'Sandburg' in the hospital, but I didn't guess. Then at Rainier, you went for the truck before I told you -- in fact you went to the driver's side. You knew where the kettle was, you used the filtered water, you didn't have to search for the dishwashing liquid . . . even the fucking fortune cookies! I should have known!" He dashed a hand across his cheek and whirled away to pound his fist on the counter. "You knew everything you needed to seduce me, and you used it *all,* dammit!" He took a deep breath, but it escaped though his lips in jagged, angry bursts. 

"Blair, no, it wasn't like that --" I began, lifting a hand toward him. 

"What I don't understand is why," he said, his voice cracking. "You lied to me, you let me think you were this innocent girl -- why couldn't you just tell me the truth? You end up in a fucking different _body_ and you didn't think it was important enough to mention! Did you think I wouldn't believe you?" 

"Well, it is pretty hard to swallow," I pointed out. 

"Not as hard as you lying your way into my bed!" he yelled, catching fire again. "What the hell was that about? What were you trying to accomplish -- humiliating me?" 

"Blair, stop it," I said. "Just calm down. This isn't about you." 

"Of course not! Just like everything else, it's all about _you_. _Your_ problems, _your_ lies, _your_ secrets." 

I grabbed his shoulders. "Listen to me, Sandburg!" If I'd been a foot taller and eighty pounds heavier, I would have shoved him against that counter hard enough to _make_ him listen. "Just stop and think for a second. If I'm here, who the hell is in my body?" 

He gaped at me. Obviously that hadn't occurred to him yet. 

I gave him a little shove for emphasis before releasing him. "That's the real problem. That's what it's all about." 

"It's -- who . . ." 

"It's Secrist," I told him reluctantly. I didn't like him knowing, but I'd never get his trust back if I didn't tell him. 

"Ohmygod. The guy who shot you? But he's dead." 

"His body is dead. That means he's not going to want to give up the body he took from me." 

His eyes were wide, showing white around the edges. "That's why he didn't know me. That's why he kept pushing me away! It wasn't you at all!" 

"That's right. Since you know me better than anyone else, you were the one most likely to figure it out. He _had_ to push you away." 

Blair shoved a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back and forth as he put things together. "He wouldn't listen to me when I tried . . . Jim, he has your senses!" 

I nodded grimly. "Apparently they're part of the package." 

"This is not good, man. Someone else in your body . . . so, what, you have a plan to make him give it back?" 

"I haven't gotten that far yet," I admitted. "I'm working on it. Right now I'm more concerned with protecting you and Simon and my father." 

"Protecting? From what?" 

"From Secrist. He's a stone-cold killer. If he even _suspects_ you know he isn't me, he'll take you out like that." I snapped my fingers. "He can do it from a hospital bed, believe me. 

"You mean that's why you lied to me? Why you -- what the hell _was_ that, Jim?" 

My face was burning. "I had to get close to you," I muttered. "I needed to stay here, stay with you, and keep you away from him -- without letting you know what was wrong. It was all I could think of." 

He shook his head over and over. "I can't believe you, man. You are such a piece of work. Didn't it ever occur to you to just --" He broke off and walked away suddenly, muttering "Stupid, stupid, stupid," under his breath. I didn't know if that was supposed to refer to him or me. 

The kettle was howling; I banged it down on a cold burner and wrenched savagely at the stove controls. 

Sandburg went into his room and closed the door. I had always tried to respect his privacy, so I ended up wandering around the living room with his robe pulled close around me. Eventually I realized that my \-- Cherelle's -- clothes were scattered all around the room. I stared down at them in dislike. I wasn't putting that skirt on again. Instead, I carried the clothes upstairs and folded them on a chair, then dug through my drawers until I found a pair of sweatpants that had shrunk after I washed them. They were still too long, so I rolled them up, then pulled on a T-shirt. 

Sandburg's french doors slammed open suddenly. "Jim!" 

I craned over the railing as he looked around the loft frantically. When he saw me, he came charging up the stairs. "Jim, you have to tell me \--" He pulled up short. 

"What?" 

Sandburg lifted a hand to his mouth, not really hiding his twitching lips. A strangled snort escaped. 

I looked down at myself. I suppose I did look like a little girl dressing in her father's clothes. 

"Man, you _really_ need to be wearing a bra," Blair managed in an unnaturally high voice. 

He was right, actually; as much as I hated the things, I had found that going without a bra tended to chafe. And I was pretty sensitive right there at the moment. With a snarl, I pulled off the T-shirt and reached for the underwear I had left on the chair. 

"Oh, uh, wow," Sandburg breathed. "Could you not do that right now, Jim?" 

"Why not?" I growled. "You've already seen it all." I turned to face him, both hands going up behind my back to work the clasp. It did sort of push my chest out at him. 

"Yeah, but --" He gulped and turned his back. 

"What were you in such a hurry to tell me, Chief?" I asked as I struggled with the clasp. 

"Oh. Actually, I wanted to ask you. That body you're wearing -- I take it that's Cherelle Sutterly, or were you lying about that too?" 

"Sandburg, I didn't want to lie to you at all. Damn it!" I muttered, shaking my hands out as they went numb. "Yes, this is Cherelle Sutterly." 

"So, uh, is she in there? With you?" 

"No, it's just me. She was in a coma for two months before -- before I was shot. Brain trauma. The doctors didn't expect her to come back at all." I cursed again. 

"What are you doing, man?" He peeked over his shoulder. 

"I can't get these stupid hooks to catch," I complained. 

"Well, don't do it behind your back, then!" He stomped over to me and grabbed the scrap of satin from my hands. Then he arranged it backwards on my chest, with the cups behind me and the clasp just above my belly button. "Fasten it there and _then_ move it around and get your arms inside." 

I did as he said, and it was easy. "Carolyn always did it behind her back," I said. So did every other woman I had ever watched dress. 

"Women have years of practice doing it every day," Blair pointed out. "I guarantee you, when they start out as teenagers, they do it this way." He paused for a moment with his hand on my shoulder, then turned to the bed to grab the T-shirt. I hadn't noticed before in the soft light, but he was distinctly pink. 

I caught his hand as he passed me the shirt. "Blair. What we did -- it wasn't just because I thought I had to." 

He didn't pull away, but he wouldn't look at me either. "I thought, maybe if Cherelle was in there with you --" 

"She had nothing to do with it, Chief. I'm pretty sure she's gone." I spoke gently, wondering if he could possibly have gotten attached to a person he had never truly met. 

He took a deep breath and sat on the edge of my bed. "Okay. That answers one question. The next one is, how did you end up in her body? How did you leave yours in the first place?" 

"I don't know." I pulled the T-shirt on. I hated to admit it, but I was more comfortable with the bra. 

"Come on, man, you must know something!" 

"Sandburg, I don't even remember the shooting very well, much less how all this happened." I gestured up and down my borrowed body. "All I know is I woke up in the hospital, and everything was different. 

"It's important, Jim. How you got _there_ is the key to getting you *back!*" 

"I realize that, but I've tried to remember and it just isn't there! Isn't there something else we can try?" 

He sighed. "Well, we could ask Secrist if he remem--" 

"No. Absolutely not. We are not even _hinting_ to Secrist that you know about the switch, or that I'm hanging around trying to figure out how to get my body back. In fact, it's better if you don't even see Secrist until we're ready to make our move. You got that?" 

"Jim, it could be the only way --" 

"Think of another." 

He sighed, his eyes wandering the room as he searched for inspiration. His brow furrowed up. "Have you ever read The Tale of the Body Thief?" 

"What?" 

"Anne Rice. It's in her vampire series --" 

"Chief, you know I don't go in for all those trendy novels." 

"This one's different, man. The main character ends up in almost the same situation you're in. In fact, he's even stupider about it than you were -- well, sort of. At least _he_ trusted his _friends_ enough to _tell_ them --" 

"Sandburg, it wasn't a matter of trust . . . let's just drop it, okay? What about this book?" 

"Well, it's been a while since I read it, but I think there's a scene . . . wait, I've got it in my room." He popped off the bed and bounded down the stairs. Even without Sentinel senses I could hear him rummaging in his room. I walked down to wait on the living room couch. 

"Okay, here it is, man." He handed me a battered paperback. "This scene here. The vampire -- who's stuck in a mortal body -- and his friend are practicing switching bodies so they can get the vampire's body back from the guy who stole it." 

I took the book, leaning a little closer to the lamp to read the scene. It was hard to concentrate, because Blair was staring at me. "What?" I snapped at last. 

"Huh?" He looked completely innocent -- and utterly lovable. 

"You're staring at me," I said, more gruff because I didn't know what to do about the attraction. 

"You're . . . well, _you_." 

"I thought you figured that out a while ago." 

"Yeah, I picked up on some cues, but now . . . you're acting like yourself, like Jim. You even sound like yourself." 

"This may come as a surprise to you, Chief, but I am capable of putting on an act when I try." I tried to return to the book, but from the corner of my eye I could see the downcast look on his face. "I feel more like myself again," I admitted in a softer tone. "It's good to be home." *With you,* I thought. 

He nodded slowly. "It must have been pretty disorienting, in the hospital." 

I swallowed, the page blurring before my eyes. "I didn't mean to lie to you, that first time. I just couldn't find the words to tell you . . . and then I found out that Secrist was in my body. I had to protect you." 

"You should have trusted me, Jim." 

"I keep telling you, Sandburg, it wasn't about trust. Are we going to tell my father?" I said abruptly. 

"What? No!" he said quickly. 

"Why not? He's the next person I have to protect. Secrist is going to be _living_ with him. Don't you think he deserves to know?" 

"Jim, your father wouldn't believe a word of it. He'd think we were crazy. Even if we _could_ plant just a seed of doubt, he'd go straight to -- to Secrist to ask him about it, and that would ruin the whole thing." 

"Exactly, Chief." 

He stared at me for a minute, then looked disgusted as he realized I had manipulated him into arguing my side. "It's totally different, man. For one thing, you had to know I would believe you." 

"Yes. I also know you won't be able to hide what you know from Secrist." 

"What, you think I can't act as well as you?" 

"I've seen you pull off some amazing bluffs, Sandburg. But this is personal. Do you really think you can walk up to that assassin wearing my body and pretend you still think he's Jim Ellison?" 

Sandburg was silent for a long minute. "He doesn't know me. I can act hurt or angry with him, and he won't realize if there's anything off about my reactions." 

"We can't risk it, Chief. Now that you know, we have a different timetable. You can't visit Secrist, but if you avoid him for more than a few days he'll know something is up. That's how much time we have to work with." 

He flung to his feet and started to pace, full of nervous energy. "Why don't we just tell Simon? With him on our side we can get Secrist isolated, and then we'll have all the time in the world." 

I sighed. "For one thing, everyone thinks Secrist is me. Simon can't just imprison an injured detective for no reason. For another, how do you think Simon would react to this whole thing? Remember how much trouble we had persuading him about Sentinel senses?" 

"We can make him believe us, Jim! There's plenty of personal knowledge that will identify you as _you_." 

"And then what? Simon would hate knowing something like this. He'd be caught in the middle, trying to fix it and sweep it under the rug at the same time. And the fact is there's not much he can do to help us right now, anyway." 

Sandburg wandered back and forth a few times, shaking his head. "I don't like it, Jim. We can't arrest Secrist because he's in your body, right? So let's say you get your body back. What happens to Secrist?" 

"I don't know," I said patiently. "We can't know until we try." 

"What if you two switch, and he ends up in Cherelle's body, huh? You can't arrest a twenty-one year old girl --" 

"Nineteen," I mumbled. 

"What?" 

"Cherelle is only nineteen." 

He stared at me. "But you said --" 

"I wanted a beer, Sandburg." 

"Great. That's just great. Another lie, Jim?" 

"It's not that important." 

"Yes it is! It makes things that much worse if Secrist does get Cherelle's body. What do we do then?" 

"I kill him," I growled. 

Sandburg froze. "Jim!" he protested. 

"Cherelle Sutterly is already dead, Chief. And I won't be going soft on Secrist just because he ends up looking like this." I waved a hand at the body I was wearing. 

"Going _soft_? Jim, _not_ killing a person in cold blood is hardly the same thing as going soft. You don't _do_ that, even to criminals and assassins!" 

I looked away. 

"Jim. You wouldn't do that. I know you." 

I shrugged one shoulder unhappily. "It depends if there's any other way to stop him. But before we worry about all that, Chief, we have to figure how to get my body back in the first place. That's the most important thing right now." 

He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "Okay. Well, there's that book. I can go to the library tomorrow and try to look up some others. I seem to remember something about cross-cultural myths of soul transference . . ." 

I tuned out the ten-cent words and tried to concentrate on the book again, but I was ambushed by a huge yawn. Sandburg stopped his pacing and glanced at his watch. "Three a.m.! How'd it get to be so late?" 

It seemed to me as if enough had happened in the last few hours to fill an entire year. I stretched and found that Cherelle's muscles were definitely worn out. I had given them quite a workout today. 

"Time for bed," I announced. "We can discuss our plans in the morning." 

I lay in bed, staring at the darkness. It was strange not to be able to see through the shadows. But even when I closed my eyes, sleep wouldn't come. Something was wrong -- something was missing. 

There was the silence, that was one thing. I was accustomed to tuning in to Sandburg's soft breathing as I went to sleep. But I hadn't had any trouble sleeping earlier in this half-deaf body. 

The bed seemed too large, but that ought to be a luxury. Somehow it wasn't. The extra space was simply empty, and the sheets were cold against my legs, sucking heat away from me toward the distant corners of the bed. 

Could I be missing Jesrine's presence across the room from me? For a twelve-year old, she had a pretty decent line in snores. But I didn't feel like I was missing her. It seemed more like I was missing . . . 

Sandburg. 

I had slept with him for less than an hour in that tiny bed of his, and now I couldn't sleep away from him. Just the thought of being next to him made the insides of my arms ache with a need to hold. I rolled over and grabbed a pillow, squeezing it against my chest. It didn't help. 

I tossed and turned for half an hour before giving in. I climbed out of bed and pulled the overlarge T-shirt on. Then I padded down the dark steps and crept into Blair's room. He was curled on his side, facing the far wall. I lifted the covers and slipped in next to him, pressing up against his heat. He mumbled something and moved his arm, trapping my own against his side. 

I slept like a baby. 

* * *

When I woke up, we had both turned over in the night and now Sandburg was spooned up behind me. He was still flaked out, breathing moistly on the back of my neck. I lifted his arm off my belly and he grumbled without waking. 

In the kitchen, the coffee maker proclaimed that it was 10:21. No one would have guessed it was so late from the sky, which was gray with rain. Cascade was an appropriate name, I had often thought. 

I headed to the bathroom to enjoy a warmer cascade. Long hot showers had not been possible in the Sutterly house, with Jesrine pounding on the door every two minutes. By the time I emerged from the steamy room, it was nearly eleven, and I was starving. I started to make an omelet, but it turned into scrambled-eggs-with-vegetables halfway through. I needed to work on the coordination thing. The food still tasted as good, anyway. 

Belatedly, it occurred to me to call Mama Sutterly. I had to look the number up in the book. I told her I had found Blair and was staying with him, the better to help him. She mentioned something darkly about living in sin, but didn't push me too hard on exactly how I was helping. 

I had just settled on the couch to check out the book Sandburg had found last night, when he came stumbling out of his room, knuckling at his eyes. "Breakfast?" he mumbled. 

"You'll have to make your own," I told him heartlessly. "I was hungry." 

He gestured at the phone. "Was that the hospital?" 

"What?" 

"I need to call the hospital and find out when J-- never mind." He detoured quickly to the bathroom, then came out and fussed with the coffee maker for a while. 

He seemed to be making a lot of unnecessary noise, even without Sentinel senses to make it worse. At last, he marched into the living room and picked up the phone I had left on the coffee table. He pressed a speed dial sequence and waited a few seconds. 

"Hi, Lucy, it's Blair. Can you tell me if Jim's still getting out today? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, okay. No, I'm not sure, but we'll see. Right. Yeah. Thanks, good-bye." 

"What was that all about, Sandburg?" 

He took a deep breath. "I can't just suddenly act like I've lost all interest in my friend, not after I've spent the last three weeks haunting the hospital every single day. If we want to keep up this pretense and buy ourselves some time, I have to act at least halfway normal." 

"Chief, I told you, I don't want you visiting Secrist. Not even to keep up a cover." 

"Well, man, if you were paying attention, maybe you noticed I didn't even _talk_ to him just now. But the nurses know I'm still interested, and they'll tell him I called but I'm probably too busy to make it in today. Now does that sound dangerous to you?" 

I just watched him. There was more coming, I knew it. 

"Actually, I was thinking maybe it would be good if I'm there when he gets out. I can tag along to his -- your father's place, help him get settled in. There'll be at least two other people around all the time \-- Secrist will be too distracted to notice how I act." 

"No. It's too big a risk." 

"Jim, I know what I'm talking about. This guy is in a lot of pain, and he's not at his most observant. They'll probably have him on extra drugs for the move." 

"He's exaggerating the pain. He wants everyone to think he's more helpless than he is." 

"It can't _all_ be an act, Jim. This guy can't deal with the senses, and he won't let me help him, and you can guess how much help your dad has been. Anyway, he's not faking the drugs or how he reacts to them. Jim, this is _perfect_. I get to put on a little show of how concerned I am, in a situation where the most possible people will see me behaving just how they expect me to. Then I casually mention that I'm way behind at the university and I may not be around for a day or two, and that buys us the time we're going to need to figure this whole thing out!" 

He had a point, but . . . "I don't like it." 

"It's perfect, man. Trust me. I won't let him see anything. Anyway, he's not getting out today. The doctors want to keep him just one more day -- they've been saying that nearly a week now. Between the senses and the drugs, they're not sure what's going on, and you know how doctors hate that." 

I sighed. "We'll talk about this later." 

"Fine. Right now I want a shower and some food, and then we better get down to work." He trooped off to the bathroom. 

"So what do you think of that book?" he asked fifteen minutes later, under a green algae mustache and a dripping mass of hair. 

What I thought was that I wouldn't be trying out body-stealing techniques on _my_ best friend, but I wasn't going to mention that just now. I flipped back a few pages. "I don't know. This description of what it's like leaving his body, entering someone else's . . . it doesn't sound right." 

He leaned across the back of the couch to read over my shoulder. "I thought you said you didn't remember how it happened." 

"I don't, but this -- just doesn't ring true." 

"Okay. Well, after I find out what the library has to offer, there should be a lot more to choose from. I just hope we'll have some way of figuring out which method is the best." 

"You'll think of something," I said confidently. 

"Your faith is truly heartwarming, Jim," he said facetiously, "but I could use some more practical suggestions. You coming with me?" 

"No, I'll hang out here," I said. "How long do you think it will take you?" 

"Jim. Blair Sandburg and a building full of books?" 

I nodded. "See you around dinnertime." 

As soon as he was gone, I went upstairs and pulled on the hated blouse and skirt, then dug out the spare keys to my truck. Driving the rugged pickup turned out to be a frustrating experience -- even with the bench seat hitched all the way forward, I had to loosen my seat belt and perch on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals. And from that position, the steering wheel blocked the speedometer. 

An idea had come to me last night as we were discussing what would happen _after_ I got my body back, and I needed to put some new plans into action. The errands took me most of the afternoon, but when I got home I doggedly dragged out some of my free weights. 

It turned out to be a mistake. I _thought_ I was setting my goals pretty conservatively, but apparently Alan the PT was right about my tendency to push myself. After my left arm nearly gave out, I admitted this wasn't helping and hauled the weights back to their corner. Sandburg should be back soon, but I didn't have the energy to cook. I called out for pizza instead, then realized I didn't have any money to pay for it. 

I was frantically searching the loft when keys in the door signaled Sandburg's return. I craned over the loft railing to see him wobbling in with a huge stack of books. 

"Have any luck?" I asked as one of the books slipped to the floor. 

He dumped the rest of the pile haphazardly on the coffee table and glared up at me. "I found a few things." 

"Great. Do you have any money?" I descended the stairs carefully, my legs protesting all the way. 

"Do I _what_?" 

"Have any money. I ordered a pizza. Should be here any minute." 

There was a knock on the door. I waggled my eyebrows. Sandburg sighed and reached for his wallet as he opened the door. 

Two large dark hands wrapped around his neck, and Frank Tooley bulled his way into the loft, pushing Sandburg in front of him. 

I ran in and delivered a punch to Frank's kidney, but I used my left arm, which had no strength at all. He didn't even flinch. So I grabbed his nearest ear, hauled it downward, and yelled "Frank! Let him go!" It came out as more of a screech than a bellow, but it was just supposed to get his attention. 

It worked. He let go of Sandburg's throat long enough to sweep me aside with one tree-limb-sized arm. I was astonished to find myself flying backward, not even touching the ground. 

Then I hit the kitchen island and blacked out. 

I stepped out of the little hut and looked around. It was nighttime, chill and clear. Frost gleamed faintly on the ground, and brittle leaves rattled in the wind. Goosebumps rose up across my bare chest and arms. 

Something brushed against me, and I dropped a hand automatically to caress my companion. But the fur that met my fingers was longer and coarser than I expected. Startled, I looked down. 

A wolf grinned up at me, white teeth shining in the dim light. He nudged my knees, and I stepped back until I was just inside the hut's threshold. Then his ears pricked up at something I couldn't hear, and he dashed off. 

"Jim! _Jim_!" Sandburg's frightened shout pulled my eyelids open. I turned my head in the direction of his voice and groaned as pain shot down my neck. 

Frank was chasing Blair around the living room, swinging wildly. Blair was evading him without too much trouble, trying to reason with the man. 

"Cut it out! Just calm down, man!" He jumped over the couch. "I don't have a quarrel with you -- I don't even know who you are!" 

"Fucker," Frank growled. "You stole my girl!" 

Blair glanced over in my direction, just long enough for Frank to catch the tail of his shirt. Blair tried to pull free, but he was off balance. A huge meaty fist landed in my partner's face. He spun around and slumped on the couch. 

"Frank! Leave him alone!" I yelled. "He didn't do anything!" Somehow I got my feet under me and stumbled in their direction. 

"You stay out of this, Sherry. This's between me and him." Frank grabbed Sandburg's shirt and pulled his fist back for another blow. 

I needed two hands to lift the table lamp. Its heavy brass base struck Frank's temple at the same moment that one of Sandburg's feet whipped up into the man's crotch. 

With a strange high-pitched whine, Frank tipped sideways onto the couch. 

"You okay, Sandburg?" I asked. 

"Jim, are you all right?" he gasped out at the same time. 

I waded through a sea of books to offer Sandburg a hand up, which was worse than useless as he nearly pulled me down with him. Frank was curled half into a ball, hands over his crotch, unmoving but not entirely limp, either. 

"He's not out," I said. "Help me get him into the hallway." 

Actually, it was Sandburg who did most of the work of dragging the big man across the floor and out the front door. My sense of balance was still a little shaky. Frank was beginning to moan and move his head as we slammed the door on him. 

"Who the hell was that?" Blair panted. 

"Cherelle's former fiance. He hasn't been taking this whole thing too well." 

Sandburg groaned expressively. "How did he find us?" 

I frowned. "I don't know." Surely Mama wouldn't have told Frank where to find me? 

"Are you all right, Jim? You hit that counter pretty hard." 

I probed at the tender spot on the back of my head, already forming a knot. "I passed out for a second," I admitted. "But I think I'm okay. What about you?" I tilted his chin toward the light. "Gonna have a nice shiner there, Sandburg." 

"Great," he muttered, then nearly jumped out of his skin as a pounding started on the door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame. 

"Go away, Frank!" I yelled through the door. "We're calling 911. You'd better be gone by the time the cops get here." 

The pounding stopped. I heard heavy footsteps stumbling away. 

"Do you really want to call the cops?" Blair whispered. 

I shook my head. "Not much they can do after the fact. And it would be hard to explain . . . dammit, I said go away or I'll call the cops!" I screeched as another knock came on the door. 

There was a pause. "Don't you want this pizza?" a teenage voice called plaintively. My eyes met Blair's and we both started laughing. 

Once the pizza was paid for and the delivery boy was gone, I got Blair a bag of frozen corn for his eye. We wandered into the half-demolished living room, eating slices from our hands in defiance of the house rules. 

"So, did you find anything useful at the library?" I asked, setting the coffee table back on its feet. 

"Oh, man, I found a ton of stuff, but I'm not sure if it's going to help us. I've got myths and legends here from a dozen different cultures, but I don't know if any of them apply to what's going on with you." He took a bite from his pizza and waved the corn at the books I was rescuing from the floor. "I looked up a bunch of different topics in the index. Those three books are compilations and cross-cultural studies of myths about possession by gods, demons, or spirits -- you know, your basic non-corporeal beings." 

I frowned at the book I had just picked up. 

"Then these ones here --" He finished the pizza slice in a hasty gulp and knelt down to help me. "These contain legends about spirits of the dead coming back to possess the bodies of the living. This is the coolest meta-study, man!" He brandished a thick tome. "It finds all these commonalities between stories from cultures that have never had any contact with each other. Like --" 

"I don't see how this is going to help, Chief," I interrupted. "Secrist is no god. And sure, he might be dead and possessing my body, but *I'm* still alive, and I'm stuck in Cherelle's body. It doesn't seem the same." 

"Right. That's what those other books are for." He gestured at the last ten volumes -- some thin, but two of them very thick. "Those are the only references I could find to cases of living human souls switching bodies." 

I looked over the collection in dismay, wondering how we would ever get through them. Then I glared at Sandburg. "You know, Chief, that stuff is supposed to melt on your face, not in your hands." 

"What? Oh." He pressed the bag of corn to his eye once more. "Most of those books only have a page or two that applies to what we want to know. Nobody's done a study on those kind of myths, as far as I could find out, so I had to go looking for primary material." 

I noticed that each book had a slip or two of paper sticking out to mark the relevant passages. I opened one up and found a legend cloaked in allegory and dotted with footnotes. "So are any of these going to help us?" 

Sandburg sagged onto the couch. "I don't know. Most of them aren't real specific on how to undo the switch, you know? A lot of the stories end up with somebody dead, anyway, and then it doesn't matter. The possession books have the most material on exorcisms, but like you said, that's not really the same as your situation. And anyway, the procedure totally depends on what kind of spirit or demon is possessing you. As near as I can figure, the way to fix the problem is to reverse the process from the way the switch happened in the first place. But since you don't remember . . ." 

I rubbed at my forehead. 

"Jim? You okay?" 

"Yeah, I -- maybe I do remember something, Chief." 

"You mean how you got stuck in Cherelle's body?" He leaned forward eagerly, the corn dangling forgotten from his fingers. 

"Not exactly. It was something that happened when Frank came in here. He hit me, and I blacked out --" 

"I thought you said you were okay?" He reached out, and I winced as his fingers found the knot at the back of my head. 

"Couldn't have been too bad, I was only out for a second." 

"Here, put the corn on it." He pressed the dripping pack into my hands. 

"The point is, Sandburg, something happened while I was out. I was in a jungle . . ." I trailed off, trying to remember all the conflicting details. 

"You mean a vision? Like when you saw the panther?" 

"There was no panther this time." I frowned. "There was a wolf, though." 

"A wolf? In the jungle?" 

"Yeah. Everything was messed up -- it was all so strange. It was freezing cold, and all the plants were dying. I looked behind me, and for some reason I thought there should be a big, stone . . . temple sort of thing." 

"Like in your other visions?" 

"That was what I was expecting. But instead there was just this little wooden hut, all falling down. Then this wolf showed up, and he sort of pushed me to go back inside --" 

"Into the hut? That was where you came from?" 

"I guess. I went inside, and then I heard you yelling and I woke up." 

"Huh." He sat back, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. 

"Does it mean something?" 

He shrugged. "There's a lot of symbolic stuff in there that could mean a lot of different things. What matters is what it means to _you_." 

"I don't know, it all seemed pretty confusing. But it reminded me of something . . ." I strained for the memory. "I remember leaving the temple. It was dark and snowing. The panther helped me find a little hut for shelter." 

"When was this?" Sandburg's voice was so smooth it worked itself easily into the train of my thoughts without disturbing anything. 

"I'm not sure. Before I woke up in the hospital, I guess." 

"In the hospital? Jim, you have to remember the details of that vision. It could be the clue we need." 

"I'm trying!" I snapped. "That's all I can get." 

"You're pushing too hard. Just sit back on the couch, get comfortable, and start with your breathing. You know the drill." 

I shook my head in frustration, which only made my wrenched neck ache more. "Why is this so important? It was just a dream." 

He leaned toward me urgently. "Jim, I think this dream is how your subconscious interpreted the body-switching thing. You said you left the temple you were supposed to be in, you ended up in a little hut, everything was off kilter -- what if those buildings represent your body? You were supposed to be in your own body -- the temple. But you got stuck outside it somehow and had to look for another body. The little hut is Cherelle's body. Now, if you can remember how you got stuck outside the temple, and how you found the new hut, that could be our clue to undoing the whole thing!" 

It made a certain kind of sense. I closed my eyes and started the relaxation exercises Sandburg had drilled into me, letting him guide me through the process of remembering. More details came back: the little creature that had rushed into the temple and shut me out ("That must have been Secrist!" Sandburg gasped); the vision I had of paramedics working on me in the ambulance (" _Classic_ out-of-body experience!"); and the way my senses had cut off in the vision as soon as the temple door closed. 

"This is it, man! This has to be the key," Sandburg exulted. "Now tell me again about what you saw today." 

I went over the shorter vision again, adding as much detail as I could remember. "I don't know where the wolf came from," I concluded. 

"Well, if you represented Secrist by an animal -- what was it, anyway?" 

"Something like a large weasel," I said distastefully. 

"A stoat, maybe? Anyway, if that was how you saw him in the vision, maybe this wolf represented someone else. Like Frank?" 

I shook my head. "It was helping me." I flashed vividly on the wolf's blue eyes, shining at me through the night. "It was you. The wolf was you." 

"Me?" He blinked. "Cool." 

He didn't seem as enthusiastic as I would have expected. "Is something wrong?" 

He stood up and began to pace. "I don't know. I don't like the fact that this happened so easily the second time. I mean, one little bump on the head and you nearly left Cherelle's body." 

" _If_ that's what the vision meant," I put in. 

"I just don't like it. You said the jungle was dead?" 

"Dying," I corrected. "All the leaves were withered and dry from the cold." 

"Jim, I think this means that we don't have much time. You don't really belong in Cherelle's body, and any little thing can throw you out of it. And the dying jungle -- that's gotta be significant. We need to get this situation fixed before all the plants are dead." 

I didn't really follow his reasoning, but it hardly seemed important. "We have a time limit anyway," I pointed out. "I need to get my body back before Secrist has time to make trouble in it." 

There was a knock on the door, and Blair got up to answer it. 

"Sandburg!" I chided as he reached for the knob. "Use the peephole." 

He rolled his eyes at me and waved a hand at the poster covering the door. *Oh, right.* I had replaced the door with a heavier model last time it was kicked in, but I hadn't had a peephole installed. It hadn't seemed important, since I could identify anyone who approached by sound and smell. But I hadn't thought about Sandburg answering the door by himself. 

"Who is it?" he called through the closed door. 

"Banks," came the gruff reply from the other side. 

His eyebrows flying up, Blair opened the door. "Hi, Simon, what are you doing here?" 

The captain stepped in, and his eyes swept quickly around the room. I saw him notice the broken lamp, then his gaze fixed on me. I smiled nervously and picked up one of the books in front of me, turning to a page Sandburg had marked. 

"You'd better put some ice on that eye before it swells shut, Sandburg," was all Simon said. 

"Oh, right. I have been icing it, actually." Blair went to the freezer for another bag of vegetables. "Can I get you anything to drink?" 

"No, that's all right." 

I sensed Simon's eyes on me, and my face was growing hot. I hoped it wouldn't show on Cherelle's complexion. 

"So what brings you here?" Blair's voice tightened suddenly with anxiety. "There's nothing wrong with Jim's -- uh, with Jim, is there?" 

"He's fine as far as I know," Simon said. "I hear you weren't there today." 

"Uh -- no. I had some work to do. Research." Sandburg waved at the books and, coincidentally, at me also. "Anyway, you know how Jim has been lately." 

"I know he's been hard to deal with, but he needs you, Sandburg. Now more than ever. Even the doctors noticed the difference today." 

Blair glanced at me. "Was he having more trouble with his senses, or something?" 

"Sandburg!" Simon hissed, stabbing an angry look in my direction. 

"Oh! Simon, this is Cherelle Sutterly. She's, um, helping me with some research. Cherelle, this is Captain Banks, Jim's boss." 

"Hi," I said shortly. I hoped my vast unhappiness with this whole situation would come across as simple shyness. 

"Actually," said Simon, "she's the reason I'm here. We've got a guy down at the station who wants to press charges against you, Sandburg. His name's Tooley, and he claims --" 

"What!" I exclaimed, rising to my feet. "Come on, Captain, if anyone should be pressing assault charges, it's us. Tooley's the one who busted in here with his fists flying. Look what he did to San-- to Blair's face!" I shut up, realizing that I was acting just a _bit_ out of character. Maybe I should let Blair do the talking. 

Now that I was in a position to notice, I realized that Simon was _really_ big. I had thought Tooley was taller, but now I discovered I was wrong. I moved away so I wouldn't get a crick in my neck staring up at him. 

Simon watched me pace. "He didn't say anything about assault, either way. He's claiming that Sandburg kidnapped you." 

"That's crazy!" Blair yelped. 

I gave up on keeping my mouth shut, but I did try to act calm. "That's not true, Captain. I'm here of my own free will. I told my mother where I was headed before I came here. Frank's just mad because I broke up with him." 

"Come on, Simon, you couldn't have believed I'd do something like that!" Blair protested. 

"No, I didn't. I already have Brown talking Tooley out of it. But I thought it would be good for me to come over here and check this out for myself." 

"What's to check out?" I asked. "We're not doing anything illegal." 

Simon looked me up and down briefly, then turned to Blair. "Did you know this woman went sneaking into the ICU to see Jim, and made some prank phone calls to the station implying that there was some threat to him?" 

"*Shit,*" I muttered under my breath, and stomped away to keep myself from saying something I'd regret. 

Simon went on. "She told a shrink that she'd had some sort of _vision_ about Jim getting shot." 

Damn Broward and his liberal interpretation of confidentiality! Now I would have to use what I had told him to try to explain my actions. It had worked on Mama Sutterly, but Simon Banks was made of different stuff entirely. 

Simon was still going, waving an angry hand at me. "And now she's insinuated herself here, into your life, into Jim's home --" 

"Now wait a minute," I interrupted. "Last I heard, believing in God wasn't a crime or a mental illness. If you talked to Broward, he must have told you that I'm not crazy or deluded." 

Blair stood with one hand folded over his mouth, looking back and forth between Simon and me as he tried to figure out what to say. 

I kept talking so Blair wouldn't try to fill the silence with the wrong words. "Now, I had a very intense dream -- and I do know it was a dream, but I think it meant something anyway. Blair's trying to help me figure out what the dream meant." Another piece of the truth, but not in the way that Simon would interpret it. I was getting good at this doublespeak stuff. 

Blair stepped in. "It's true, Simon. She hasn't been hiding anything from me. She just wants to help Jim, if that's possible." 

"Is that why you've been avoiding Jim?" Simon demanded angrily. 

"I've been avoiding him because he's been a pain in the ass, and you know it. I got tired of putting up with it and I thought I could take a day off." Blair took a deep breath. "Anyway, Cherelle might have some insight to offer. She's suffering from traumatic amnesia too, and it makes it tough for her to get along with her family." 

"Or with Frank," I added. 

"So Cherelle is here because she wants to be and because _I_ want her here. Nobody's being deceived, and nobody's being held against their will. So I guess you wasted a trip out here, Simon." 

"Whoa, easy, Sandburg!" Simon held up his hands. "I'm not accusing anybody of anything, I just wanted to check the situation out for myself." He hesitated. "There's another reason I need to talk to you." 

"What is it?" Blair caught the direction of Simon's gaze. "You can talk in front of Cherelle." 

"It's about Jim. He's being released from the hospital tomorrow." 

"Are you sure? The doctors have been saying that for a while now." 

"I'm sure, because this time I'm pushing it through. Sandburg, we got a call from one of Jim's snitches. The word is, Nadine Hoef is in town." 

I stiffened. 

"Hoef?" Blair frowned. "You mean Secrist's ex-girlfriend?" 

"She was more than a girlfriend -- she was his accomplice, and they were damn near married. It's possible she's planning some kind of revenge against Jim for killing Secrist." 

Blair gulped. "Shouldn't you keep him in the hospital then, so you can protect him?" 

"No. Hospitals are a security nightmare, with staff coming and going at all hours. We think we can protect him better at his father's house. There'll be a unit outside at all times. But I wanted to warn you, Sandburg, because you could be in danger too. Do you want me to send Rafe or Taggert over to stay with you?" 

Blair glanced in my direction. "No, that's okay. We'll be careful." 

Simon scowled at me, then bent forward to murmur in Blair's ear. I wished fervently for Sentinel hearing again. 

Blair's chin jutted stubbornly at what he heard. "I'll think about it, Simon. Thanks for the warning. You just, um -- try to make sure that woman doesn't get to Jim, okay?" 

I restrained myself until the door had closed behind Simon. "What did he say?" I demanded. 

Sandburg blinked. "Hmm? Oh, he just thought you were some kind of threat to Jim." 

"Well, I am," I pointed out. "Or at least, I'm a threat to Secrist." 

"Right. Jim, are you _sure_ we shouldn't tell Simon what's going on?" 

"There's no need," I said. "We're making progress here, and we're almost ready to make our move and get my body back. And it will have to be soon, with Hoef in town. Secrist must have sent her some kind of message." 

Blair blinked. "So?" 

"Like Simon said, they were practically married. She's the one person most likely to recognize him in another body. And she's dangerous." 

"She wasn't implicated in any of the actual killings." 

"She knew what he was doing. Some of the evidence suggests she picked which jobs he did. She was definitely responsible for getting them in and out of places unseen. She created new identities for them. She's exactly who he needs to help him now. Anyway --" I gave Sandburg a dark look "-- do I really need to remind you about your bad luck with women?" 

Blair gave a little snort, then folded a hand over his mouth as I glared at him. "Whatever you say, man," he said in a strained voice. "So you really think you know what to do, once you get close to Secrist?" 

"Sure. I just have to get into that trance state or whatever it is, find the temple, and kick out the weasel that took it over." 

Blair narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing that it would be so easy. "Maybe you should practice a little first. Like in that book." 

"No." There was only one person to practice on, and I had no intention of trying to take over Blair's body. "Didn't you say you thought it was dangerous, how easy it was for me to leave this body? We shouldn't mess around with it until the time comes." 

He shrugged. "You have a point there." 

I glanced at the clock. "I think we should call it a night. It's getting late, and this body tires out easily. And _you_ need to be alert tomorrow, if you're going to be there when Secrist gets out of the hospital." 

His eyebrows flew up. "You mean you agree with me? You're going to let me do it?" 

"Can I stop you?" 

He grinned. "Nope. You know I'm right, man." 

"Did I say that, Sandburg?" 

Shaking his head, he began to collect the debris from dinner. I helped him, then we took turns brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed. Sandburg was at the door to his room when I got up the courage to speak. 

"Blair." 

He turned. 

"Would you sleep upstairs tonight? With me?" 

He just stared at me. 

"I'd be more comfortable . . . I'd sleep better . . . I mean, it's just so lonely up there." 

His face cleared. "You came down to my room last night, didn't you? I thought I had dreamed that." 

My cheeks grew hot. "I'm used to hearing you breathe, even from upstairs. I can't do that now. And . . ." *And it's cold up there, and the bed is too big, and I want to be with you . . .* "I'd just be more comfortable, that's all." 

He shrugged. "Okay, man, you got it. Just let me grab some stuff." 

I went up to the loft and pulled on some loose clothes -- well, everything I owned was loose on this body. Ordinarily I slept naked, or just in boxers, but Cherelle's body seemed to chill too easily. And I didn't want to make Sandburg uncomfortable. 

He came up after a few minutes wearing his usual T-shirt and boxers, and climbed into the bed on the far side from the stairs. He made it all seem businesslike and casual as he squeezed a pillow into the shape he wanted, then reached out to snap off the light. 

I crossed the inches that he had left between us and placed a hand against his cheek. "Blair." 

The whites of his eyes shone through the darkness. 

"Yesterday night," I began awkwardly. "It wasn't all a lie. I wanted it." 

I heard him swallow. "So did I, man. That's why it hurt when I figured out the truth." 

"Blair, it -- it wasn't like that." I reached deep to find words, and the courage to say them. "It was so good, between us. You made it . . . beautiful. I don't want you to hate that memory." I stretched up on one elbow and found his mouth with mine. Toothpaste, and the delicious taste of Blair. "I'd like to try it again sometime." 

His reaction was a long time coming, and not what I expected. "You keep calling me Blair." 

I blinked. "I guess I got used to it. I mean -- it's a tough-guy thing, isn't it, calling you by your last name. Seems silly now." 

"It makes it harder to remember that you're you." 

I moved back a little. Ever since he learned the truth, Blair had treated me so naturally that I forgot how strange it must be for him. I looked different and sounded different, and sometimes I felt like another person even to myself. But he had adapted so easily that he somehow made me feel more comfortable. 

"Would you like me to stick with Sandburg, then?" I asked. 

"Yeah. Or --" He squirmed a little. 

I grinned. "Whatever you want, Chief." I hesitated a moment. "Actually, I'd kind of like it if you used that nickname for me." 

He tilted his head curiously. "You want me to call _you_ Chief?" 

"No, the other one. You said it was French?" 

"Jim, that was when I thought you were Cherelle." 

"Yeah, but didn't you say it could be masculine, if there was no E? I . . . well, I sort of liked it." 

His teeth flashed briefly. "I had no idea you were so mushy, man." 

I pressed close to him, my head fitting into the curve of his shoulder as it had the night before. "Hey, you've already seen the worst of me, Chief. That's what friendship is all about, right?" 

His hand came up to cradle my head. "Good night . . . Cheri." 

I lay awake awhile, listening to the familiar snuffle of Blair's breath in unguarded sleep. 

Strange that after all all my fears before I had started this mission, now I would willingly give up a lifetime's worth of macho self-identity for the chance to love Blair Sandburg. Stranger still that he seemed so reluctant to take me up on it. 

There was no one else I would have trusted as I did him. And now, for the first time, I knew that it wasn't just the Sentinel thing. I had felt uneasy and off-balance until the moment I arrived home -- with him. Then everything felt right again. I needed Blair to be my anchor regardless of the Sentinel senses. And I could count on him to be there for me even when the senses were gone, attached to another body on the other side of town. 

I lay awake a while longer, thinking about Simon's visit and the different ways everything might turn out -- for me, for Sandburg, and for everyone else I knew if I couldn't stop Secrist. My mind went back to the plans I had _tried_ to set into motion that afternoon. It hadn't been as easy to set up as I'd hoped, and I was ready to concede the issue before Simon showed up. But Tooley's accusation of kidnapping made things a little more urgent. I would have to find another way -- and somehow, I would have to get Sandburg to agree to my plans. 

The arm I had squashed underneath myself began to go numb. I rolled reluctantly away to lie on my back. To my surprise, Blair followed, slinging an arm across my waist. "Mmmm," he breathed appreciatively into my ear. 

*Probably thinking of some girlfriend,* I told my leaping heart. 

"Mmm," he murmured again, a little more loudly. "Jim. Love ya, man." And he went back to snuffling into my neck. 

I blinked into the darkness of the loft. Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard after all to get Blair to go along with my plans. 

* * *

In the morning, Blair called the hospital and confirmed that "Detective Ellison" really was to be discharged within a few hours. After he'd hung up, Blair stood by the phone looking adorably uncertain. 

"Are you really sure you want to go through with this?" I asked him. 

"Oh sure, man. It won't be any problem," he assured me. "Secrist won't notice a thing. I'm just trying to psych myself up for it, you know? Like when I did drama as an undergrad. This can't be any harder, can it?" 

I was struck silent for a minute by the image of Sandburg gesticulating up on a stage, in greasepaint and fancy costume. "Just stay back out of Secrist's way," I urged him. "What was it you said before? Act like you're mad at him. Let the others do the talking." 

Once he was out the door, I geared up for another run of errands. I would be heading for a seedier part of town today, so the twice-worn skirt and blouse were out. Instead, I raided Sandburg's room for casual clothes that might be at least a little closer to Cherelle's size. I found a T-shirt that I had never seen Blair wearing -- probably because it *wasn't* two sizes too big. I also dug out a worn pair of jeans that were only a few inches too long, that would stay up on my hips with the help of a tight belt. 

It took me until well past noon to finish what I had planned, but at least this time I was successful. When I came home with a sheaf of papers clutched in my hand, I found Blair pacing the living room anxiously. 

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded at once. 

"I had some things to do," I said mildly, setting the papers aside. 

"Well, you could have left a note or something -- I was worried sick." 

I shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't think of it. Did you have trouble with Secrist?" 

"Huh? Oh, no. He was doped to the gills and still in so much pain I think he could hardly see. Anyway, there were about a dozen people there \-- Simon, your dad, Sally, Rafe and a couple of uniforms assigned for protection. I couldn't get a word in edgewise." 

"Good." I frowned. "You think this pain thing is real?" 

"I'm sure of it, man. He has no clue how to deal with Sentinel senses, and the drugs are just making it worse. But he never gave me a chance to help him -- and now . . ." 

"Now you know who he is," I finished. "So how mobile is he? Can he get around on his own?" 

"The doctors think he should be walking by now, but he insists he can't. He's been resisting the physical therapy." 

"Playing up the weakness for all it's worth," I speculated. 

"Or else the pain," Blair added. 

"Right. So he'll be pretty much confined to bed?" 

"Yeah, I think so." He squinted at me. "Does this mean you have a plan?" 

"I'm working on one," I returned non-committally. "I think tomorrow will be the best time to make our move." 

"Why not today?" 

"Because there's something else we need to take care of first." I took a deep breath; despite Sandburg's sleepy mumblings last night, I had the feeling this wasn't going to be an easy conversation. 

He froze suddenly, staring at me. "Are those my clothes?" 

I grinned in spite of myself. "Hey. I didn't think you'd mind!" I spread my hands wide in imitation of his reaction last time I had complained about my shirts disappearing downstairs. 

He chuckled. "Okay, okay, I get the point. But what were you doing that you had to steal my clothes?" 

"I spent the morning getting these." I picked up the papers I had left on the counter and handed them to him. 

Blair frowned over the documents. "A marriage permit? For --" His eyes widened as he saw the names. "Jim, man -- what's this about?" 

"I think you should have some legal protection, Chief. We don't know what's going to happen to this body when I get my own back. Between that, and Frank trying to accuse you of kidnapping -- I think you need some proof that I'm with you of my own free will." 

"And you think the way to do that is to get _married_? Get real, man!" 

"Think about it, Sandburg. What if Cherelle goes back into a coma? Or comes back to herself and freaks out? What if Secrist ends up in Cherelle's body? If you're supposedly married to her, you'll have some legal power. It could give us the edge we need to stop Secrist -- or to keep you out of jail." 

"Jim, that's crazy! How the hell did you get this permit, anyway? It takes at least two weeks to get a marriage permit in this state." 

I stared. "How did you know that? No, never mind. I had to cut some corners, Chief, but the permit is genuine." 

"Cut corners -- you mean like the blood test? Or did you stick a needle in me while I was sleeping?" 

"Calm down, Chief. Yes, I had to get the blood test results falsified. But the license is for real -- no one's going to challenge that." 

He slumped on the couch, pushing curls back from his face. "Okay, let me get this straight. Jim Ellison, Mr. law-and-order, got some _forged_ documents to allow him to get a permit for a totally fake only-on-paper marriage, in hopes that it _might_ protect me in case of a situation that may or may not ever come up. Did I get that right?" 

He had left out the part about bribing a court clerk. "You don't have to make such a big deal out of it, Sandburg. We go to the courthouse, say a few words in front of a judge, get a paper -- and you've got some evidence to back you up in case something goes wrong." 

He laughed incredulously. "Jim, I know my family history doesn't exactly suggest a deep reverence for the state of matrimony, but this is a -- a travesty! It's laughing in the face of one of our culture's most important institutions!" 

"It's using the situation to our advantage," I corrected. 

He shook his head. "I never thought I'd get married at all, man, but if I did -- I thought it would be to someone really special. Someone I'd be spending the rest of my life with. Not just to take advantage of some legal loophole." 

I stared at him. I'd been going about this all wrong. I thought the practical arguments would carry more weight, but I'd forgotten one simple fact that I had first learned during the Carasco gun-running case -- Blair Sandburg was a romantic at heart. 

I sat slowly on the coffee table facing him, my hands resting on his knees. "I thought I _was_ someone special, Chief. I thought you were planning to stick with me." 

He blinked. "Well, yeah, but --" 

"It makes a certain kind of sense, really. Because there's no one else I'd want to marry. No one else I'd be willing to promise forever to. But you and me, Sandburg, we're -- close." 

"Jim . . . you're a _man_." 

"Not at the moment," I pointed out. "That's why we should do this now, if we're ever going to. Unless you want to wait twenty or forty or fifty years for the state to _maybe_ decide it's okay for two men to be together." 

"Jim, you --" 

I leaned forward and captured his mouth, delving deep for the taste of him. When I pulled away, his eyelids were fluttering dazedly. I held his gaze carefully, trying to project my sincerity while I reached for the courage to say the three most difficult words in the English language. "I love you." 

The blue eyes went wide, the full lips gaping in astonishment. "You can't --" 

I kissed him again. "I've told you a dozen times, Chief, it wasn't just a trick the other night. I wanted it. I want *you.*" I took a deep breath and tried again, and it was a little easier this time. "I love you, Blair Sandburg. Will you marry me?" 

He blinked twice and swallowed hard. "Okay." 

They did weddings at the courthouse every weekday afternoon. We were supposed to have an appointment, but it should be possible to get past that, if there weren't too many couples scheduled. I was relieved to see only five other pairs waiting when we arrived, and Sandburg exerted his charm on the clerk to get us penciled in. 

I was nervous about the possibility of meeting someone we knew at the courthouse. Of course, no one would recognize me, but they might ask what Sandburg was doing there. Fortunately, the criminal courts were on the other side of the building. 

I was sitting on one of the hard wooden benches while Blair paced nervously in front of me, when suddenly he smacked his forehead. "Oh, man, I forgot \--" 

"What?" I asked, straightening up. 

"Um. I gotta go do something. It won't take more than half an hour." 

"Sandburg, we're _on_ in half an hour!" 

"Okay, twenty minutes, then. Give me your truck keys." He held out his hand. 

"What are you planning to do?" I asked suspiciously. 

"Nothing illegal. Come on, man, you know you can trust me." 

I sighed and handed over the keys. "You break it, you bought it." 

"Got it." He grinned impishly and bent down to give me a quick kiss on the mouth. "See you in twenty." 

I glanced around the hallway. We'd gotten a couple of strange looks, but not because of the kiss. I suppose it had sounded like an odd exchange for a couple about to be married. I smiled privately and brushed a finger across my tingling lips. 

Sandburg wasn't back in twenty minutes. Fortunately, the couple ahead of us had brought a large group of witnesses and were making a big occasion out of the whole thing. When Blair finally breezed in, five minutes after the time we had been scheduled for, I grabbed his hand to haul him into the courtroom. 

"Where were you?" I hissed. 

"Getting this." With a flourish, he handed me a small jewelry case. 

I froze, staring at it. The white-noise earplugs came to my mind; he had had the same triumphant expression when he presented me with those. 

"Go on -- open it." 

I popped open the little box. Inside, tucked in a bed of ivory satin, was a plain gold wedding band. I pulled it out. 

"Sorry I didn't have time to get it inscribed or anything . . ." he said, beginning to sound a little doubtful. 

The ring was far too big for any of my fingers -- it barely even fit my thumb. I looked up in consternation. 

"It's sized for -- you know, to fit _you_." 

I gulped. "Blair . . ." My voice jammed in my throat. "How could you afford this?" 

"I had some money saved up." 

"I thought that was for books?" 

"I can get books any time." He watched me anxiously. "You don't like it? _Damn_ it. I _knew_ I should have gotten one to fit like you are now. You could wear it on your pinky or something when you get your own body back. I mean, you're not gonna want to wear a wedding ring around the station -- people would ask questions, right? What the hell was I thinking?" He turned in a tiny, frustrated circle. 

I caught his arm. "Blair. I love it. It's perfect." 

He stopped. "You mean that?" 

"I love _you_." And I kissed him, more thoroughly this time, uncaring of the people around. 

"Sandburg! Sutterly!" the bailiff bellowed almost in our ears. It was time to get married. 

The actual proceedings were anticlimactic. I was in the same old rumpled skirt and blouse, and the bridegroom wore sunglasses to hide his black eye. The judge, bored after a long week of the same thing day after day, droned our vows in a monotone, and all we got to say was "I do." Sandburg's voice trembled on the words, but his hand was steady as he slipped the ring onto my left hand. The judge's voice faltered briefly when he saw how oversized the ring was, but I just curled my fingers into a fist to keep it in place. Then Sandburg grabbed me and dipped me back over his arm and kissed the breath out of me. 

Afterward, I took him to dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant that had a vegetarian menu Sandburg particularly liked, but rarely got to indulge in. I plied him with Chianti while musicians roamed among the tables playing operatic classics in overdone style. My face was aching from the grin I couldn't turn off, and Sandburg was in a similar condition. 

We were staggering more from laughter than from wine when we reached the front door of the loft. Blair was so taken with the image of Frank Tooley being hit in the face by a basketball in the midst of declaring his undying love for me, I had to take his keys away from him to get the door open. 

"Hold it!" He held an arm across my chest. 

"What?" I sobered quickly, looking through the open door for any source of danger. 

"Come here, Cheri. I have to carry you across the threshold." 

"Oh, for -- whoa!" Before I could object further, I was swept up in Sandburg's grip. 

Even with the atrophied muscles and the weight lost in the hospital, Cherelle was no feather -- but Blair hardly grunted as he lifted me high enough to fuse our mouths together, then walked into the loft. He kicked the door shut behind us as he carried me all the way to the couch before collapsing with a _whuff_ of air. He started to laugh again as he looked at my face. 

"The blushing bride," he giggled. 

"I'll give you blushing," I muttered, and shifted so I could get at the bulge I had felt poking into the back of my thigh. 

Sandburg gasped as I stroked him through his jeans. He was more than ready, I saw, so I went straight for his fly and got right to work. I wanted to taste him; I wasn't sure if I would be up for that particular act once I got my Sentinel tastebuds back, so I wanted to make the most of it while I could, even if my current mouth was too small to do the job properly. 

I licked and laved him and suckled the head while he gasped and clutched at the cushions. With some shifting around to get my body at the right angle, I even managed to take him deep enough that his curls brushed my upper lip. He gave a strangled cry and thrust forward, but when I tried to do it again my teeth scraped against him. My jaw just didn't have the strength to stay that far open for very long; it must be an acquired skill. So I backed off a little and settled for a combination of tip-sucking and hand work. That had always worked pretty well when I was on the receiving end, and it seemed to have the same effect on Sandburg. Soon he was yelling as he filled my mouth with dollops of slick fluid. 

I sat back, licking my lips. It tasted like salty dishwater to me; I wasn't at all sure I'd be able to take it once I got my senses back. But the expression of doped satisfaction on Blair's face was all the reward I needed. 

I climbed back up into his lap and he pulled me in for a kiss, either not caring or not turned off by what I had just consumed. Then his hands went to work on the buttons of my blouse. 

I caught him by the wrists. "Not here," I whispered. "Let's go upstairs and do this properly." 

He grinned hugely. "Whatever you say, my dear wife." 

I groaned. I could tell I was never going to hear the end of this. 

A few hours later, I sank gratefully into a tub of hot water. This was another luxury I hadn't had the chance to indulge in at the Sutterly household. Not that I had missed it much, since hot baths were never a favorite of mine. But I hadn't realized until now how soothing hot water could be against tender female parts. It also helped that I could actually fit _into_ the bath now -- when I was in my own body, I ended up with knees and elbows sticking every which way and only a small portion of me actually underwater. 

I was tender because of my efforts to wear out Sandburg. I had a pretty good idea now why all those women were always flocking around him -- even after all that wine, he had no performance troubles. He had come three times so far this evening and coaxed me to orgasm twice before he fell asleep, yet I still had the feeling he was just catching a little nap to restore his energy before we started up again. 

I sighed and shifted in the cooling water. Weren't women supposed to have _more_ sexual stamina than men? 

A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door. "Jim, man, you in there?" 

I grinned to myself. After all that teasing about brides and wedding nights and wifely duties, Sandburg could still remind me in an instant that I was the same person I always had been. He didn't treat me any differently -- or not much, anyway. I wondered how it would be once I got my body back. 

"Yeah, I'm here," I answered. 

"What're you doing in there?" 

"Taking a bath," I answered drily. 

"Oh. I must have missed the water running." 

I chuckled. "What, you thought I was sitting on the can all this time, contemplating the mysteries of the universe?" 

"Something like that. Um, can I come in?" 

"Sure." 

I glanced over at the door as he entered. He had on only a pair of jeans. I suspected he was commando underneath, and felt the familiar tightening in my belly at the thought. There was my sexual stamina showing through \-- if only I weren't too tender and weary to follow up on it. 

"I need to, uh --" He waved at the toilet apologetically, then pulled the shower curtain between us. The kid had always been a little pissshy; he'd never have made it in the Army. 

"All that wine taking its toll on you, huh?" I called over the sound of an energetic stream hitting the bowl. 

"Gimme a break, man, I had three lousy glasses, plus the half glass you didn't finish." 

I frowned. I hadn't really been counting, but it was true we hadn't come close to finishing off the half-carafe I ordered. "How come you've been acting so silly, then?" I asked after he flushed. 

He pulled back the curtain and perched on the side of the tub. "Natural exuberance," he told me. "I'm just high on life." 

I couldn't resist reaching out to brush through that lovely nest of hair on his chest. Then he bent down to kiss me and my fingers found a thicker nest. 

"So what were you thinking about, all alone in here?" he murmured. 

"The mysteries of the universe and the unfairness of life." 

"What's so unfair?" His thumb stroked across my lower lip. 

I sighed dramatically. "Well, just when my body -- my _male_ body -- reaches the age of a woman's sexual prime, I get stuck in a female body right at the age of a *man's* sexual prime." 

He laughed. "You seemed to be doing pretty good to me." He leaned in for another deep kiss. "Come upstairs when you're done, Cheri, and we'll see what else we can work out for two bodies not quite at their prime." 

With an invitation like that, it didn't take me long to decide the water was getting too cool. I dried myself hastily and was about to follow Sandburg out of the bathroom when a thought occurred to me. I dug through the medicine cabinet and found a new box of condoms. We might be needing those. Next to them stood a big jar of Vaseline. That should take care of the tenderness problem, I decided as I smeared it on liberally. 

* * *

A couple of hours after midnight, I left Blair sleeping the sleep of the utterly drained, and I headed out to the suburbs. 

It wasn't hard to avoid the uniforms watching my father's house. I was wearing dark clothes that I had stolen from Blair's room, but they were just a formality; I could guess just where the unmarked car would be placed for the best view of the house, and I knew where that left blind spots. I drove by once to confirm where the uniforms were waiting, then parked a few blocks away and started my short-cut through Mrs. Mallory's yard. 

I discovered a bit late that Mrs. Mallory, or whoever had bought the house from her, had acquired a dog since my teenage years. Fortunately, the animal was inside at night, and its frantic barking was met with a sleepy "Shut up, Digger! It's just a raccoon!" And then I was over the fence into my old backyard. 

I also knew how to get into the house without benefit of a key. After all, I had gone through puberty while I lived here, and secret assignations with Jennifer Watkins were not the sort of thing my father would extend a curfew for. I just had to go up the old sycamore I'd been climbing since I was five, get a knife blade through the frame of the bathroom window, flip the hatch and squirm inside. No problem, even in Cherelle's smaller and much wearier body. 

It took me a few minutes to flip the old brass catch, and then I paused just as I was about to push open the window. 

What if I didn't actually need to _see_ Secrist in order to make the switch? Perhaps I could do it from anywhere nearby -- right here, for instance. After all, I was closer to my own body right now than the distance between the Emergency Room and the long-term care wing at Engelmanm's. Could I do it from here and save myself all the trouble? 

I sat back in a crook of the welcoming sycamore's limbs, where I wouldn't fall if I went limp. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to get to that place, the jungle I had seen before. It was easy; I heard the sound of dead leaves rattling and followed it inward, and suddenly I was opening a door onto the dying jungle. 

It was night, but I could still make out the dark shape that paced back and forth before my door. It turned and snarled at me, eyes flaring suddenly yellow. I closed the door and abruptly felt the roughness of the sycamore branch beneath me. 

Apparently, the panther thought it was a bad idea. But at least it had been a fairly simple matter to reach that vision-world. I wished Blair were here to advise me, but he was safer staying at home. 

If he were here, he would tell me to trust my instincts. And my instincts said this had to be done the hard way. I needed to confront Secrist face-to-face. 

So I crawled out on the branch that brushed against the house, pushed the bathroom window open, and wormed my way through the gap. Secrist would, of course, be sleeping in my old bedroom. Avoiding the creaky board just to one side of the bathtub, I slipped out of the bathroom and down the hall. 

The bedroom was unguarded; he was alone inside. I pushed the door closed behind me before flipping on the light switch. The window was curtained and faced away from the street, so the uniforms wouldn't see anything. 

His eyes opened at once, without startlement. "Ah, here you are. I've been wondering when you would show up." 

I froze. "You know who I am?" 

"Of course. And I know what you want." 

I shivered. It was my voice -- more _mine_ than the one that had been coming from my mouth lately -- but it had the flat, deadly intonation of the assassin I had last heard on a phone, summoning me to an ambush. And those were _my_ eyes, in _my_ face, watching me with such menace. This whole concept of my enemy inside myself was beginning to feel very strange. 

He didn't have the same problem, since Cherelle was a stranger to him. He looked me up and down. "So, will that be mine, when you're done?" 

I shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know." 

"It's not so bad," he decided. "Seems healthy at least. The last few weeks have been extremely unpleasant for me; I can see why you vacated the premises." 

"Well, now I want them back!" I hissed, moving closer to the bed. 

He hadn't moved since I came in the room. Not even his head was turning; he followed me with his eyes. The peculiar stiffness in the way he was propped up in the bed -- Blair's tales of rejected physical therapy -- it all added up to say that he wouldn't be attacking me bodily. Anyway, if Blair was right, this fight had to occur in the other world, the jungle of my visions. 

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, and in an instant I was there. I stepped out into the night and let the panther lead me, tail lashing, to the temple where I belonged. It was nearer than I had expected. I ran up the front steps eagerly, but the stone doors were still solidly closed. I scrabbled at the edges of them, tried to dig my fingers between door and lintel -- nothing worked. The doors wouldn't budge. I had to find another way to get them open before I could get inside and find the weasel that had taken over my body. 

The panther was pressing me away, back from the doors. I retreated reluctantly to the little hut I had come out of. As I opened my eyes, Secrist smiled at me unpleasantly. 

"Not without a fight," he growled. 

And I heard a gun cocking right next to my ear. 

"Hands away from your sides. Step back from the bed," said a familiar voice. 

I turned slowly to find Detective Rafe, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers, holding a gun to my head. He gestured me further away from Secrist. "Put your hands behind your neck." When he was satisfied I wasn't going to resist, he lifted the two-way in his other hand. "Unit One to Unit Two. Send someone inside, and tell Base I have Hoef in custody." 

I dropped my hands in disgust. "Oh, please . . ." 

"Hands up!" 

I raised them again. "Rafe, did you even _read_ the damn file? I look nothing at all like Nadine Hoef." 

He snorted. "Right. Nothing at all like a notorious disguise artist." 

"I'm _not_ Hoef!" I protested, and just then something moved. 

I never had a chance to alert Rafe. A flash of black came down on his head, and as he crumpled a black-clad figure stood over him, gun pointed downward. "But I am," she said in a sweet voice, pulling off her ski mask. 

_This_ was Nadine Hoef. 

Once she was certain Rafe wouldn't move, she turned her attention to me. "*You.* Stay right there until I figure out what's going on." Then she looked at the man in the bed. "And you must be Ellison." 

"Not exactly," said Secrist, his voice strained. "Dina, I was the one who sent that message." 

Her eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear that name?" 

"It's *me,* Dina. Who else would know our codes?" 

She sneered. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the cop who interrogated my husband before murdering him?" 

So they _had_ been married. Oops. 

"Do I _look_ like I've been interrogating anyone?" Secrist gasped, and I realized the tightness in his voice was from pain. "Dina, I swear, it's me. I got stuck in this other body somehow, but it's really _me_. I can prove it to you. Ask me anything." 

"Howler," she said cryptically. 

"March '89, under Dodger Stadium," he fired back. 

Her jaw dropped. "Nate?" 

"It's me, honey. I got stuck in Ellison's body, and Ellison --" he moved a hand weakly in my direction "-- got stuck in that one." 

She frowned at me, her gun aimed squarely at my chest. "*You're* Ellison?" 

I didn't answer. A mental clock had been ticking away inside my head. "What did you do to the officers parked outside?" Even though I hadn't heard any traffic over Rafe's radio, one of those uniforms should have been in here by now in response to his call. 

"Well, you're a cop all right, whatever you look like. Don't worry about the boys in blue; they won't be interrupting us anytime soon." She glanced at Secrist. "She doesn't _look_ like someone who could bring you down." 

"It's Ellison, I tell you. He had this body at the time. And that one helped." Secrist looked down at Rafe. "He was the one that put the bullet in my chest -- Ellison just got me in the leg and slowed me down." 

Hoef looked thoughtfully at me, Rafe, Secrist, and back to me. "All right, Nate. If you're in Ellison's body, whose body is that?" 

"Some nobody. Ellison wants his own body back now, but he's not going to get it. Dina -- I don't pretend to know how this switch happened, but we can make it work for us! Everyone thinks I'm a cop now, a hero. And they'll think this crazy girl broke in here to murder me." He reached out an arm, grimacing with pain, and pulled a small pistol from a bedside drawer. 

"Where did you get that?" I said sharply. 

He grinned. "Daddy gave it to me." 

"My father doesn't keep guns in the house." 

"He said he bought it a few months ago for his own protection." 

I swallowed. After Foster had broken into the house and terrorized both him and Sally, Dad must have felt pretty helpless. 

"You really are Ellison!" Hoef exclaimed. 

"I told you, Dina! But no one else knows. I take this 'girl' out now, and it's self-defense. And then I've got it made -- *we've* got it made, because everyone thinks I'm an upstanding guy." 

Hoef thought it over. "What about him?" She nudged Rafe with one toe, and he groaned. "He knows someone else was here besides the gi-- Ellison." 

"Kill him with his own gun, put it in the girl's hand. It's a simple story. She breaks in, knocks out the detective trying to protect me, shoots him -- I shoot her, just a moment too late to save my buddy's life." 

My blood ran cold, listening to them plotting my death and Rafe's. And then Secrist really would be home free. Only Sandburg would know the truth, and to do anything about it he'd have to get Simon to believe him -- without any evidence on his side, since 'Ellison' would deny it categorically. If Secrist or Hoef got a whiff of Blair's knowledge, my partner would meet with some perfectly explainable accident. Secrist could pick off my friends and family one by one as they grew suspicious, and it could go on for years before he had to abandon the detective facade. 

"It could work," Hoef concluded after consideration. 

I didn't want to die, but more than that I didn't want to leave such an ugly legacy. I tensed my muscles to move. I would probably just get myself killed, but maybe I could upset their neat little plan. 

Something moved out in the hall: a pale face surrounded by long curls. I froze. 

"So how do we do it?" Hoef mused. 

Secrist had it all worked out. "I shoot her first, from a distance. You use her hand to shoot whatshisname, Rafe there. The first witness will be Daddy running from down the hall; you'll have to get out of here before he comes." 

Hoef nodded and picked up Rafe's gun, pocketing her own. "Okay. Come here, girl -- Ellison -- whoever you are." She reached out for me -- 

Something came flying in through the doorway and _whanged_ off the back of her head. I lunged for the weapon in Secrist's hand, twisting it free as Hoef collapsed. Her elbow hit the floor first, and the gun she was holding went off. I saw the muzzle flash, then a wave of blinding pain overtook me. 

"Dina! No!" 

"Jim! Jim!" Beyond the red-streaked blackness, warm hands grabbed my elbows. 

"Chief," I breathed. 

Another voice sounded further away. "My god, Jimmy . . ." 

"Call an ambulance!" Blair yelled. 

I struggled to see past the red veil of pain in my head. Black night \-- jungle -- a wolf panting over me. "Chief, I couldn't do it." 

"Easy Jim, just take it easy, you'll be all right." 

I gripped his arms harder. I might be _seeing_ the jungle world, but at least I could still hear and feel Blair. "Couldn't . . . get into . . . the temple. Gotta make him . . . open . . . from inside." 

He went still under my hands. I felt him turning to look at the man on the bed. "I'll take care of it, man. You just go. Go to the temple. Get it back." 

I could still feel one hand clasping mine tightly, but with the other he was reaching for something -- digging in his pocket. In the jungle world, I saw the wolf look up, its eyes gleaming. It turned and bounded away. At the edge of my vision the panther appeared, leaping at me -- 

  * into me. I _was_ the panther. I rolled to my feet, shedding dead leaves from the jungle floor, and loped after the wolf. 



In a clearing stood a stone temple. Ancient, revered. Covered in vines, its carvings worn faint, yet standing solidly against time. The wolf dashed up the front steps and barked once. 

Slowly, ponderously, the great doors swung open. 

I was through the gap before it had widened more than halfway. My vision pierced the darkness easily; I saw the little creature crouched in the corner, hissing at me. Its ugly musk stained the air. With one bound I got my teeth on it and shook my head sharply, feeling the satisfying snap of its spine. 

I carried the limp body to the doorway and tossed it contemptuously over the threshold. The wolf sat outside, grinning at me with pink tongue lolling. A warm, moist breeze passed over the jungle, and an insect began to sing. 

I opened my eyes to find Sandburg watching me anxiously. 

"Jim?" he breathed, a world of doubt in that one word. 

I tried to nod, but it hurt like hell. My body was large again, and every square inch ached. "Chief," I rasped. "Sickness and health, huh?" 

He blinked, recognizing the quote and then realizing that only I could know about the wedding. He bowed his head until our foreheads touched. "Oh god, man, I thought I'd just gotten you killed." 

I smiled weakly. "We did it, Chief. Hurts like hell, but I'm back." 

He nodded, his hand tightening painfully over my wrist. "If you _ever_ do that to me again --" 

I looked past his shoulder. The room was bustling with people; ambulance attendants were checking out Rafe and Hoef and loading Cherelle onto a stretcher. My father was just visible out in the hall, explaining something to Simon. 

Blair turned to follow my gaze as the gurney carrying Cherelle was wheeled away. "Did Secrist --" 

"He's gone," I whispered. "Gone for good. What about Cherelle?" 

Blair swallowed. "She's alive. The bullet hit her -- you -- on the right temple." 

I winced. That was where the injury from the car accident had been. "Ah, Blair," I breathed sadly. It sounded like Cherelle was worse off than before I had come along. 

He tried to summon up a smile. "As long as *you're* okay." 

"What about the officers outside?" I raised my voice a little as Simon came nearer. 

"They're fine," Simon said. "They were just gassed with something. They're already coming around. Sounds like Hoef wasn't really cut out for murder." 

"Tell that to Rafe," I muttered. "She was going to shoot him with his own gun." 

"But that girl -- Cherelle -- stopped her?" Simon guessed. 

"Something like that." Belatedly I put my mind in gear, trying to think up a plausible story. I could hear Rafe talking sluggishly in the corner, responding to the EMT's questions. Anything I said would have to match with him. 

"What the hell happened here, Jim?" Simon demanded. 

Blair looked nervous. "Um, I think he's a little tired right now, Simon \--" 

"No, I'm fine," I said quickly. Better I should make up the explanation than Blair. "Um, Cherelle came here first." 

"How did she get in? Three officers on scene, and she slipped right past them," Simon complained. 

"I have no idea." 

Simon looked at Blair, who shrugged. 

"I just woke up, and she was gone." He blushed as he realized what that implied. "I guessed she had come here, but I couldn't think _why_ she would have come without me." That last was said with a glare in my direction. "I got here and saw the uniforms outside were unconscious. That's when I called you." 

"I noticed you didn't stay put like I told you to," Simon growled. 

"I couldn't! Not when Jim was in trouble." 

"Jim and your friend Cherelle," Simon corrected. 

Blair gulped. "Right. Her too." 

"Cherelle, ah --" I scrambled frantically for inspiration. "She said she came to see me because she had this bizarre idea that she could help me get my memory back." 

"At three in the _morning_?" 

"I don't know! Ask her about it when she comes around, Simon." That was a pretty safe recommendation to make. "She'd only been here about a minute when Rafe came in. He thought she was threatening me, so he told her to stand back. But before either of us could explain, Hoef walked in and knocked out Rafe." 

"So Hoef was planning to kill you?" 

"Yeah. All three of us. But just when she was about to pull the trigger, Sandburg threw something --" 

"I think it was a paperweight," Blair supplied. "I found it on the hall table." 

"So that took out Hoef, but not before she got off a shot at Cherelle," I finished. The story was full of holes, but it was close enough to the truth that no one could prove I was lying. 

Unless Rafe had been awake enough to hear Secrist and Hoef talking. I looked in his direction uneasily, but the detective was being eased onto a gurney, clearly in no shape to talk. 

Simon was shaking his head. "I don't get it, Jim. Why would Hoef make her move when there were already two other witnesses in here, including a cop? And what the hell did this Cherelle girl think she was doing, anyway?" 

I tried to shrug, but it was too painful. "I don't know what either of them were thinking, sir. Cherelle was, um, a little weird, but she seemed okay. In a way, she saved my life. And --" I smiled weakly. "I did get my memory back." 

He blinked. "What, all of it?" 

"Yeah, right up to the shootout at the warehouse." 

"Well it's about time, Ellison. You haven't been yourself at all these last few weeks!" 

I winced. 

It took a while to get everyone cleared from the room. Hoef was still unconscious when they carted her away; that paperweight had gotten her pretty hard. But she would be in custody from the moment she was discharged from the hospital. A famous assassin's main accomplice had been brought into custody, thanks to Blair. 

My father also lingered, needing to be reassured that I was all right. I explained to him patiently that I remembered everything now, and I appreciated his hospitality but I would be more comfortable in my own home. We made the compromise that Sally could come and take care of me during the day when Blair was out. 

That left only Blair, who had been pacing the hall and muttering to himself while I got rid of everyone else. He defiantly announced to Simon and my father that he would be staying the night to help me with my senses and pain control. Dad winced at the reference to my senses, but both he and Simon agreed the arrangement was reasonable. 

So at last we were alone. "Thanks for staying, Chief. The pain really is pretty bad," I said pitifully. 

His anger disappeared instantly under a blanket of concern. "Did you try the pain dial thing?" 

"Yeah, but I guess I'm a little out of practice." 

"I'll talk you through it." He pulled up a chair and guided me through the relaxation exercises. 

A few minutes later, I sighed as the pain receded to a bearable level. 

"That better?" he asked. 

"Much," I agreed. I looked at him warily. "I guess now you're going to tell me how pissed you are." 

"Oh, pissed doesn't _begin_ to cover it, man. When I woke up and found you gone, and that damn ring next to the bed --" 

"Did you bring it?" I demanded eagerly. 

That threw him. "What?" 

"Did you bring the ring? I couldn't wear it before because it might fall off, but it should fit me now." 

"Why would I have brought it?" he snapped. "I'll return it to the jeweler's tomorrow. It was all a sham, wasn't it? Just a lousy excuse for you to get me to drop my defenses so you could slip away. Man, that is so _low_." 

"Blair," I said gently. "I meant every word I said yesterday. I wasn't faking anything. Has it occurred to you that I could have slipped out a lot more easily if we weren't sharing a bed? And you wouldn't have found out until morning." 

"Right, and have I mentioned what an incredibly _dumb_ move that was? What the hell did you think you were doing, coming out here by yourself?" 

"I wanted you safe --" I began. 

"Safe! You could have been _killed_ out here, man! How does that make me safe, when you're gone and I'm the only one that knows about Secrist?" 

I gulped, remembering the grim picture my imagination had painted as Secrist and Hoef plotted over me. 

"And how would it have looked if my _wife_ supposedly killed Rafe and tried to kill my partner? You think anyone would believe my crazy story about body-stealing assassins then?" 

"It wasn't supposed to work like that," I said. "I wanted to get the switch done before Hoef got here." 

"And how were you going to do that, huh? You didn't even think it through, man! Didn't you realize that you'd need a way to get Secrist to leave _his_ body at the same time?" 

"How did you do that, anyway?" 

"Huh? Oh . . ." He pulled a small silver cylinder from his pocket. "I induced a zone-out." 

I stared in horror. "You used a _dog_ whistle? Sandburg, if you ever try to use that thing on me --" 

"Quit changing the subject, Jim. We were talking about stupidity -- specifically, yours." 

"I was trying to protect you --" 

"And _that_ is exactly the problem. You have to give up this idea of protecting me, Jim, because it gets you into trouble every damned time. I mean, just look at the facts. You lied your way into my bed -- why? To protect me. You *didn't* tell me that the man I'd spent the past two weeks visiting in the hospital every day was an assassin -- because you thought you were protecting me. You tricked me into a fake marriage, supposedly because it would give me some legal protection. And finally, you break in here without a clear plan and nearly get yourself and a couple other people killed -- to protect ME! Where's the logic?" 

"You're right, Chief," I said dully. 

He stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping. "What did you say?" 

"I said you're right. I made some really dumb mistakes. But, Blair \-- keeping you safe is really important to me. Lying to you was wrong, but . . . has it occurred to you that there were other reasons for me to do some of those things you mentioned?" 

"Like what?" he said suspiciously. 

"Like . . ." I took a deep breath. "I love you. I _wanted_ to be in your bed, once I got used to the idea. I _wanted_ to be married to you, and it's not like we could do that with me --" I waved a hand at my undeniably masculine body. "I wish you wouldn't call it a fake marriage, Chief. It's real to me. And I'd really like you to bring that ring back in the morning." 

"But Jim, you can't . . . I mean, you don't want . . . I mean, _now_!" He said eloquently. 

"Of course I can. Why not?" 

"Well . . . you're a man!" 

I stared down at the bed covers. "I was afraid that would be a problem for you." 

"For _me_? What are you talking about?" 

"You're straight, Chief. I knew that all along. I guess I just hoped you would get over it, you know -- for me." 

"Jim." He came closer and perched a hip on the edge of my bed. "I believe you, man. What you just said, that you had other reasons . . . even the love thing. I do believe you. But part of that was Cherelle, okay? You were in a woman's body, with a woman's hormones and emotional responses \-- I know it's going to be different now." 

My face was burning. Embarrassment, frustration, anger -- all of those mounted within me. "It wasn't *hormones,* Chief," I growled. "I know what love is. I thought you felt it too. If you can't --" I took a breath and tried to calm myself. "If you can't stand the idea of loving a man, then you make up whatever excuses you need. Just don't try to pin them on me, okay?" 

He stared at me, his mouth open. "Jim. You're straight too." 

I sighed. "I always was, yes. I had some trouble at first with just the idea of, of -- being with you. Intimately. But once I got my brain around it, it was . . . easy. Natural. It made sense. And I'm not talking about the body I was in at the time. It doesn't matter what body I'm in now. I mean *you.* And *me.* Together, always. It made sense." 

He just stared. 

Minutes went by until I couldn't take it anymore. "Look, Chief, I'm not going to push you on this. You have to decide where your limits are. I've told you what I want." 

He stood and walked slowly over to the corner, where his jacket had been discarded at some point. 

I bowed my head in resignation. 

But instead of putting the jacket on, he pulled something from the pocket and held it out to me. 

A jeweler's box. 

I looked up and met his eyes. 

"Take it," he breathed. "It's for you, Jim. I got it to fit *you.* It's just --" He blinked rapidly. "When I woke up, and you were gone, and the damn ring was there on the table, I thought . . ." 

"None of it was a lie, Chief," I told him. "None of it." 

He opened the box himself and pulled out the ring. I lifted my left hand toward him, and he slid the ring onto the fourth finger -- a perfect fit. 

We were motionless a moment, staring at each other, then an imp of a thought made my mouth twitch. "You may now kiss the bride," I said solemnly, and twisted a hand in his shirt to pull him closer. Our lips met and mated. 

"Jim. Jim." 

I blinked. How had he gotten over there? "Yeah?" I said weakly. 

"Jim, did you just zone out from kissing me?" 

I licked my lips. "Yeah. You taste . . ." There weren't words. 

"Oh, god. You really are a hopeless romantic, aren't you?" 

"A total sap." I couldn't get the grin off my face. "Kiss me again." 

"I Married a Marshmallow," he intoned, and granted me a quick peck. 

"Come on, Chief, there's room for two in this bed." I tugged at his shirt again. 

He overbalanced and braced himself with hands on either side of me. "Jim! I'll squash you. You shouldn't be moving around like that now." 

I shrugged. "Okay, so I'm in pain and we probably can't do much, but I still want you next to me." 

He sighed. "All right, but I'm keeping my clothes on. If your father or Sally walks in, we can say I just dozed off." He crossed to the other side of the bed and squirmed under the comforter. 

"So long as you're with me, Chief. Always." 

* * *

I walked slowly through the loft, grimacing as I swung my right arm through a full circle. I had almost the full range of motion back in that shoulder, if not full strength. The doctors were amazed at how quickly I had improved, once I had supposedly stopped resisting therapy. I was doing much better now, but I still got out of breath easily, and it would take years of work before I really got my muscle tone back to where it was -- if I ever did, given that I was aging as well as scarred. 

I had been cleared to go back to part-time deskwork starting tomorrow. I was hoping it would only be another month or so before I could pass the physical to get back on duty. 

So I figured it was time. I was ready to take that final step with Blair. 

In one way at least, my injuries had been a blessing. They had forced us to go slowly, and we never had to admit that we were actually a little nervous about being intimate with each other. Whenever we decided to back off or stop what we were doing, it was always because of my aching shoulder or something. 

That excuse worked for both of us, which was fortunate because Blair was more uneasy than I was. I'd had a little trouble adjusting to being a man in love with a man, but I was never as panicked as that first time, when Blair had thought I was Cherelle. He, on the other hand, was still learning to think of my body -- my own body -- as desirable, and the homosexual thing was a little harder for him to accept as the smaller member of a couple. 

The sex itself was okay -- probably better than I had any right to expect, considering the shape I was in. I did have an unfortunate tendency to zone out at times, which had never happened to me before during sex. Then again, I had never really opened up my senses with any other partner. 

The first time I got Blair naked in bed with me, I was completely absorbed in him, even though I could hardly move. I spent half an hour just exploring the different textures of his skin, and longer trying to get various parts of him into positions where I could smell him. And a few nights after that I discovered what it was really like to _taste_ someone. 

I should never have worried about whether I would be able to stand the taste of Blair during oral sex. It turned out that "good" or "bad" just couldn't describe the complexity of what I sensed, any more than those words could be used to describe something visual like a landscape or famous painting. I zoned out for five minutes after Blair came in my mouth; I felt certain that if I concentrated just a little harder, I would be able to tell what he'd been eating for the past week just from the taste of him. 

Sandburg was upset at first: frightened because I had zoned out, and convinced it was because he tasted awful to me. I had to explain it about fifty times before he believed me, and then he made an unflattering comparison. "It's like with dogs," he'd said. "They have these incredibly sensitive noses, and they just love to stick them in piles of --" 

"I'm not a dog, Chief," I growled. "It's just . . . you taste cool, okay? I like it. I want more." I tried to pin him down. 

"Ah, no, Jim . . . I couldn't, really." He made weak fending motions. "You'll kill me. Jiiim!" 

I smiled at the memory. And with impeccable timing, I heard Blair enter the building. 

He came in and tossed his keys in the basket, his backpack thumping to the floor. "Hey, Jim. How's it going?" 

"Great, now that you're here," I said in a low voice, stalking him. 

His eyes went wide as he recognized my expression. "Uh . . . hey, could I get something to drink first? I'm like a desert here." 

"As long as I can hold you." I wrapped my arms around him and we walked in lock-step to the cupboard for a glass, then to the fridge for the good water. Sandburg downed a glass and a half while I simply held on to him. 

It had taken me a while to realize that it wasn't mere physical warmth that ignited my senses when I touched him. It felt hotter than body temperature, and tingled like electricity, and it had a flow to it as if something were passing from him to me, or vice versa. I had been afraid to mention it to Sandburg at first -- afraid that he wouldn't feel it as well, or that he would cheapen it with some theory about pheromones. 

But at last I'd asked him, one night in bed. I was lying on my back, which was the only position that was comfortable. Fortunately, we'd discovered that my mostly-unhurt left arm could bear the weight of Sandburg's head, so he was pressed close against me with his head nestled in the crook of my shoulder. My whole left side was alive with the fire of contact. 

"Do you feel that?" I asked. 

"Mmmm . . . warm," he murmured against my skin, pursing his lips to kiss one of my healing wounds. 

It was enough. Sandburg might not feel it as strongly as I did, but at least it wasn't one-sided. Maybe one day I would get up the courage to tell him just how intense it was for me. But for now, in the kitchen with Blair in my arms after a long day apart, I was content just to hold him. 

Blair finished his second glass of water more slowly, then set the glass aside and turned in the circle of my arms. "So," he said with an uncertain smile. "You seem aggressive today." 

I just nodded and kissed him. "Missed you." My lips played softly with his. "Want you." I let my tongue get involved, just as a suggestion. 

His smile deepened, and he brought up a hand to stroke my face, lingering over the new scar along my jaw. 

I pulled away, uncomfortable. "Guess you won't have to worry about me cheating on you with anyone else." 

He blinked. "What?" 

I shrugged and waved at my face, trying to make a joke out of it. "Well, who would have me, now that my boyish good looks have been ruined?" 

"You're kidding, right?" His smile faded as he realized that I was serious. "Jim, do you have _any_ idea what you look like?" 

"A guy with receding hair and a scar on his face." 

He shook his head. "Man, you should be featured on the cover of a romance novel or something!" He paused, looking distracted. "Actually, you know, I could really go for that -- you in a pirate shirt, strategically ripped to show off your manly chest . . ." He groped me through my T-shirt. 

"Chief!" I protested in embarrassment. My pectorals were somewhat reduced from their former glory, though Blair seemed not to mind. 

"Seriously, Jim, once that scar on your face goes white, it's only going to add to your looks. Every hero needs to have a few flaws. Weren't they just calling Harrison Ford the sexiest man in America last time I went through the checkout line? He's got a scar." 

"Sexiest man in America?" I grunted as Blair's hand wandered lower, exploring my stomach. "Does that mean you could be tempted into a little hanky panky?" I whispered, leaning closer. I nuzzled through herb-scented hair in search of an earlobe to suck. 

He melted against me. "Keep that up, man, and you could tempt me into anything." His voice had gone all husky, the way I liked it best. 

"Even . . ." I hadn't found a good word for it. "Intercourse?" 

He pulled back, and I heard his heart speeding as he looked at me. "You mean, uh . . . you really think we're ready for that?" 

"I am." I went for his neck, where some of my favorite Blairscents could be found. 

"I kinda thought --" He gasped as I licked across his pulsepoint "-- that we were doing pretty good with what we've tried so far." 

"Yep," I agreed between licks, "Loved it. But there's nothing wrong--" lick, suck "-- with expanding our repertoire." I straightened a little to look him in the eye. "Anyway, I'm curious. I want to know what it's like." 

He nodded understanding, but his heart was still racing. "I don't know about this, Jim. I mean, I'm not saying no -- I just need a little time to psych myself up. It's a big step, you know -- a big change in self-image, and --" 

"Hold it, Chief." I thought I saw where the problem was. "I'm not talking about -- uh, I mean, I'm not really in any shape to be taking the active role, here." 

He blinked. "You mean . . . Jim, you can't want --" 

"You inside me," I finished for him, and felt a surge of arousal go through me as I said the words. "Yeah," I breathed, pulling him close again, "that's exactly what I want." 

"You're sure?" His voice rose sharply at the end, but I would never be so rude as to call it a squeak. 

"Positive," I purred. I remembered what it was like having him inside me before. Part of that might have been a woman thing, but I was taken with the whole concept as well as just the physical pleasure of it. I was pretty sure the physical stuff would be at least bearable for me as a man, and I wanted to feel that ultimate togetherness again. "Why don't we take this party upstairs?" I suggested. 

"Okay." He followed me toward the steps in a daze, then halfway there he snapped his fingers. "I should get some stuff --" He headed for his old room, where he he still kept his things, although he hadn't slept there in weeks. 

"I've got it all upstairs, Chief," I told him. "Anyway, do we really need to use anything? We've both been tested . . ." 

He looked at me solemnly. "Jim, when you're talking about . . . what we're talking about here, there's a lot more at risk than AIDS. It's better to be safe than sorry." 

I nodded sadly. It would have been nice to feel him naked inside me. 

"Anyway, we still need some lubricant." He headed for his room again. 

"I got it covered, Chief. I brought the Vaseline up from the bathroom." 

He made a face. "Vaseline won't work. It's not slick enough and it's too hard to wash away. Anyway, it's oil-based, so you can't use it with condoms." 

"What do you mean, can't use it?" I asked, following him curiously into his room. 

"Well, you _can_ , but it destroys the latex. Makes little microscopic holes in it." He emerged from under the bed with his hair sticking in all directions and the little carved box in his hands. "If you're going to use Vaseline, you might as well forget about condoms altogether." 

I shook my head in wonder. "Where do you learn all this stuff, Chief? I know you've never done this before." 

"C'mon, Jim, this is basic sex education here." He looked up at me. "What, they didn't teach this stuff in your day?" 

I shrugged. "There was a day when they made all the boys go to one assembly and the girls went to another, but it was all pretty vague and confusing. I'm sure there was nothing in there about condoms and Vaseline. I got more sex education in the Army." 

He cracked up. "You're kidding, man. The _Army_?" 

"Well, they _did_ try to discourage men from leaving a kid in every port." 

He retrieved a tube from his stash and followed me upstairs, giggling to himself. "Sex education . . . the *Army!*" 

"All right, Chief," I said, unbuttoning my jeans. "We're both new at this. Why don't you show me the benefits of your superior education?" 

And he did. Just like when I was a nervous woman, he treated me like spun glass -- taking his time, arousing me slowly, letting me get used to being touched back there. I hadn't realized how sensitive that area was, but Blair made sure all the sensations were good ones. And that tingly heat effect was back in full force. I would have enjoyed Blair's touch no matter what he was doing to me. 

He positioned me on my left side. I wanted to do it face-to-face, which I had read about, but Sandburg insisted that would be too strenuous for our first time, especially with me still recovering. I didn't quite trust my right arm to hold me up on hands-and-knees, so I ended up curled on my side with a pillow under my hip, craning my head to see what he was doing. 

He explored me for what seemed like hours, opening me and getting lots of lubricant in there. He was right -- the stuff did feel a lot nicer than Vaseline, and it didn't get in the way of my sensing his fingers inside me. At first it was strange and embarrassing, as if I had to go to the bathroom -- then he touched something inside me and I felt as if I'd just gotten a jolt of electricity. 

"Blair!" I gasped. "What was that?" 

I think I just found your prostate." I could hear him grinning. His fingers moved again, stroking me gently, and the heat of his touch seemed to reach right down inside my cock. 

"Blair! Oh, god." I fisted my fingers in the covers. "Do something!" 

"Okay, Jim, here I come. Nice and easy." The words belied the strain in his voice. He was on his knees, hands braced on either side of my stomach as he pressed in gently. 

Heat. A long, fat rod of the pulsing, tingling warmth that was Blair, coming right up inside me. It was exactly what I'd hoped for -- perfect togetherness, warming me from within. 

"You okay, Jim?" he grunted. 

"Yes!" I gasped. "More!" 

And he came right into the middle of me, pressing against the spot his fingers had found earlier. That special charge flowed right down into my cock. 

"Blair," I whimpered. "Blair." 

"Is this okay?" he asked again. "I'm not hurting you?" 

"No. God, no! Feels good. Keep going!" 

And he moved. Slowly, smoothly, slickly in and out of me. It was heaven. 

He was using both hands to keep all his weight off of me. A few times he tried to shift and free one hand to touch me, but his balance was too awkward. "Touch yourself, Jim," he breathed. 

"Feels good just like this, Chief," I murmured. I was lost in a warm haze of possession. My cock was definitely interested in the proceedings, but this went so far beyond sexual that orgasm seemed pretty pointless at the moment. 

He stretched out a bit to lick at my earlobe. "Please, Cheri," he whispered. "I want to watch you." 

So I reached down and wrapped my fist around my cock. Blair was right; that certainly felt good. I stroked it gently while he continued to thrust in and out. It was beautiful, slow and languorous. 

Then Blair changed angles somehow, and he wasn't just pressing against my prostate but actively rubbing it. I felt blood surging in my cock with each move he made, and as his thrusts grew more insistent, so did my excitement. 

He was kissing me wherever he could reach, twisting his head so that his hair stroked across my back and shoulders and chest. I could hear his deepening arousal in the little whimpers at the back of his throat each time he thrust. He was still trying to be careful and gentle, but he was getting close to losing control. 

I tightened my hand on my cock, stroking so that my thumb rubbed around the sensitive head again and again. "Do it, Chief," I growled. "Do me. Feels so good to have you inside me. You like it? You like being in me?" 

"Yes," he grunted. He was almost beyond words; a little more would push him over the edge. 

"God, you make me hot," I gasped. "You wait; when I'm better I'm never going to let you get out of bed. Keep you here so I can kiss you . . . touch you . . . suck you, yeah, I love sucking you . . ." 

"Jimmmm," he moaned. 

I pumped my cock in rhythm with my words. "Run my hands through your hair . . . hold you all day long . . . and you can come inside me . . . want you in me forever. Yeah, Chief, fuck me, come on!" 

"Jim!" He was jabbing sharply inside me, his breath coming short. "Come with me, Jim, do it! Oh god . . . Jim, I love you!" 

My eyes went wide. He'd never said that before. It should have been cheapened, coming in the middle of sex like that, but it wasn't. I could hear the truth in his voice. I could feel it in the heat that impaled me. Suddenly that warmth seemed to expand, like sunlight illuminating the inside of me. It flooded through every corner of my being as Blair cried out, his cock pulsing sharply inside of me as my cock spurted over the bed. 

I closed my eyes, reaching inward to that warmth. It was like sunlight on the jungle after a storm . . . with steam rising in clouds from the trees . . . and electric-blue eyes staring right through me. 

"Jim, you there?" 

I blinked. Blair was leaning over me, peering anxiously into my face. "Did I zone out again?" 

"I guess so. Are you okay?" 

A smile spread inexorably across my face. "Did you really say you loved me?" 

"Umm . . . yeah," he said shyly. His eyes widened. "Is _that_ why you zoned out?" 

"Not just that." I grabbed his hand tightly, palm to palm. "Say it again." 

He licked his lips. "I love you?" 

Heat arced between our hands like lightning. "Did you feel that?" 

He frowned at our linked fingers. "I felt . . . something." 

"Ah, Chief, come here, let me hold you." I got him spooned up against the front of me. Skin to skin . . . it was the best way to be. My exposed back was a little chilly, and my left shoulder was beginning to ache, but I didn't care as long as I held the sun in my arms. "I love you, Blair." 

Turned out it worked both ways. 

Something tickled at my nose -- tobacco from a cigar. I opened up my hearing and detected familiar footsteps echoing up the stairwell. With a sigh, I placed a quick peck on Blair's neck and started to disentangle myself. 

Blair opened his eyes as I rolled out of bed. "What is it?" 

"Simon's here." I pulled on my pants. 

He shot upright. "Oh, man! Um, um --" He started gathering clothes frantically, apparently planning to run down to his old room to dress. 

"Don't worry about it, Chief," I said fondly. "I don't care if Simon knows." 

He stared at me. "You don't?" 

"No. In fact, I think he _should_ know. Take your time getting dressed." Still buttoning my shirt, I sauntered down the stairs in time to open the door just as Simon reached it. "Hello, sir." 

Simon glowered. "Do you think you could let me knock -- just once?" 

"I'll consider it, sir. Is anything wrong? If it's about my coming back tomorrow --" 

He held up a hand. "There is something wrong, but actually it's Sandburg I need to talk to." 

"Okay. Well, he should be down in just a minute." 

Simon nodded, then did a double-take, his eyes flickering up toward the loft. His expression as Blair appeared at the top of the stairs -- fully dressed, but undeniably mussed -- was priceless. I just leaned back against the counter to enjoy the sight as realization dawned across Simon's face. He rubbed a hand across his eyes as if he wished he hadn't seen it. 

"I guess that answers that question," he muttered. 

"Hi, Simon," said Blair cheerfully, concealing the nervousness I could see in the line of his shoulders. "What question?" 

"The question of why you don't seem to care about Cherelle Sutterly anymore." 

Blair glanced at me. "I care. I've been to the hospital --" 

"Three times in the last two weeks, I know. Did you know they're considering pulling the plug on her?" 

Blair sank heavily onto the couch. "No. I mean, I didn't know it would be this soon. But honestly, Simon . . . I'm not sure I should be part of that decision." 

"Why not? You were obviously close. She saved Jim's life, for God's sake." 

"We were close, but I only knew her a few days." He leaned forward solemnly. "See, what you have to understand is that . . . Cherelle and I, we were always clear about one thing. She was not the same person she was before the accident. That was what she kept trying to tell Frank Tooley, but he wouldn't listen." He was carefully not looking my way. "And we also knew it was possible something would happen, and then she wouldn't be the same person _I_ knew anymore. All we could do was take any time we could get to be together." His words were absolutely convincing, since they were mostly the truth. "Did you know Cherelle's mother thought she had been possessed by an angel?" 

"I heard," said Simon sardonically. 

"Well, you don't have to believe it literally, but it shows you how much her personality had changed." 

I decided it was time to change the subject. "Simon, what do you mean, they want to pull the plug? She's not on life support -- not even on a respirator." 

"They were talking about removing her IV and feeding tube. It would take her a few days to . . . go. But that idea's been tabled for now." 

"Why?" Blair asked at once. 

"Because she's pregnant. About fifteen days along." 

*Oh shit.* Blue eyes locked with mine in mutual horror. 

"Tooley is washing his hands of the whole thing. He insists the child couldn't possibly be his." Simon waited a minute. "Sandburg?" 

Blair caught his breath. "Well, I . . . I mean, it could . . . we _did_ \-- but we were careful, Simon! We took precautions. Every time." 

"Vaseline," I said softly. 

Blair's head whipped around to face me. "You didn't." 

I swallowed hard. "I didn't know, Chief." 

His eyes closed miserably. 

Simon looked back and forth between the two of us. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I gather that it's possible? The baby could be yours, Sandburg?" 

He nodded, looking to me for confirmation. "I guess . . . it must be." 

"Then what are you going to do?" 

"I don't know," Blair whispered at no one in particular. "I don't know." He looked around dazedly. "Excuse me, I have to --" He headed for the bathroom. 

"Is he going to be all right?" Simon asked. 

I focused my hearing just as the toilet lid went down. No vomiting, no crying, but his breathing was slightly muffled; it sounded like Sandburg was just sitting there with his head in his hands. He must have chosen the bathroom for privacy, so I reluctantly tuned him out. "I think so," I answered Simon. "It's just a shock." It certainly was; I was still trying to process the idea myself. 

"Jim, I'm sorry, I didn't mean --" Simon waved vaguely. "I hope this isn't going to cause any trouble between you two." 

It took me a while to realize what Simon was talking about. "No, uh . . . no. Those weeks there were a really weird time for all of us. We've agreed to just let it go." 

"Fatherhood isn't such an easy thing to let go." 

"No, I guess not." Except that I was the baby's father -- mother -- just as much as Blair was. Perhaps more, since the responsibility was all mine. 

I turned to look at Simon. "So does that mean you don't have a problem with . . . us?" 

He sighed. "Jim, I won't say I wasn't surprised, but . . . really, everyone already guessed." 

"You . . . everyone?" 

"Well, the matching rings when you came into the station the other day were a pretty big clue." 

I ducked my head, hiding an untimely smile. I had gotten Sandburg a ring to match mine just as soon as I could get to a jeweler's, and he wore it all the time now. Apparently the detecting skills of Major Crime hadn't suffered too much in my absence. 

The bathroom door opened and Blair stepped out, a new determination on his face. 

"You okay, Chief?" 

"Yeah." He nodded firmly. 

"What do you want to do?" 

"Whatever we have to. I'm going to be there for this kid." 

I looked at him, seeing the fatherless child behind the man. First marrying me, then fathering a child -- suddenly Blair's life was full of commitments. But he wasn't planning to back down on any of it. "We'll both be there," I told him. "I'm with you all the way." 

Epilogue 

The sounds and smells of a busy hospital battered at my senses, and I shifted closer to Sandburg. He didn't seem bothered by the bustle, but then he had been here nearly every day during the last eight months. He must be used to it by now. 

Blair led me to the neonate ward, and the nurses all greeted him by name. "Mrs. Sutterly isn't here yet, but you can see Angela if you like," one said. 

I winced at the name. I wasn't really happy with Mama Sutterly's choice for the baby's name -- mostly because it seemed like it had been conceived under false pretenses. But I really had no say in the matter, and Blair was quite taken with the concept. He was cooing right now, "Angela, Angelica, little angel," as he cradled the tiny baby in the crook of his arm. 

"Don't you need a mask?" I said, appalled. She was so small and fragile. 

Blair laughed. "Jim, she's going home today. She's a whole month old, and she's gained three pounds in the last two weeks. She'll be just fine." 

"She's still premature," I grumbled. The baby was still a few weeks shy of the forty-week deadline. 

It hadn't been necessary to pull the plug on poor Cherelle, after all. The young woman had wasted away slowly as the baby inside her grew, until finally, after seven and a half months, Cherelle had gone into crisis. The doctors had saved the baby, but not the mother. Little Angela had gone directly into the neonate ICU, and none of her parents -- Cherelle, Blair, Mama Sutterly, or myself -- had had a chance to see or hold her. 

But Blair had been there every day nonetheless, talking to the baby through the plastic of her isolation unit, playing music for her, donning mask and gown just for the privilege of touching her for a few minutes. It wasn't a new routine, since he had been coming to the hospital daily for the months preceding -- talking to Cherelle and the baby, gently massaging Cherelle's stomach to give the baby stimulation that would ordinarily come from the mother's activity, balancing a tape recorder of tribal rhythms on Cherelle's chest. 

I watched him now with the tiny scrap of life in his arms, and I couldn't believe he was planning to give her up after so much work. I moved closer. "You should keep her," I murmured. "You should fight for her." 

Blair's eyes closed in pain. "Jim, you know that wouldn't work. You and I have been out of the closet for months. I would be accused of being an incompetent father, and the custody fight would be in all the media. I don't want that for Angela." 

"But you've got the marriage certificate. Why haven't you used it?" 

"I don't know, Jim, maybe because the permit was obtained by fraudulent means? I only supposedly knew Cherelle for a few days. Everyone will know we had to cheat to get that license." 

I was about to explain to him how careful I had been with the paper trail, showing that the blood tests had been done shortly after Blair and "Cherelle" met in the PT room, but he was still talking. 

"Anyway, they could probably have Cherelle declared mentally incompetent and get the marriage annulled or something." 

I shook my head disbelievingly. "Blair, you're burning your bridges before you get to them -- making strategies for the other team. If you want the baby, fight for her!" 

"I want her," Blair sighed as he traced the smooth, dusky cheeks with one fingertip. "But I don't know if I should have her. What would I do with a baby, Jim? How could I take care of her?" 

I should have realized he was worrying about that. "Chief, I can take care of both of you. After all, I'm responsible for this mess. You know my salary is enough --" 

"Jim, don't say you're responsible, like a baby is a bad thing. She's beautiful and wonderful and I'm glad she's here. But I can't keep her. It isn't just a matter of money. You need me with you. I don't want you going out on the streets alone, but I can't go on stakeouts at all hours with a baby at home." 

I opened my mouth to say that I could change my classification, get a desk job, request 'family' working hours, but Blair placed a finger across my lips. I could smell the sweet talcum scent of the baby on his hands. 

"If she were really ours, Jim -- yours and mine genetically -- then I would fight for her. But this little one is never going to be a Sentinel, and I really think she'd be better off with her grandmother." 

I gulped. "Blair, they live in a little three bedroom house -- an adult and four kids. Five, counting Angela." 

The baby gurgled and Blair rocked her soothingly. "That's not a problem. Young children don't really need space and privacy -- that's just a matter of enculturation. What children always need, regardless of culture or class, is love. And Mrs. Sutterly will give her plenty of that." 

He was right about that. I certainly would sooner trust a baby to Mama Sutterly than to my own father, who had housing and money to spare. But how could I look at the light in Blair's eyes as he held Angela, and not want to bring her home with us? 

Blair saw the dilemma on my face. "Look, man -- even if I thought she would be better off with us, there's another reason I don't want to use the marriage thing as leverage to get custody." 

"What's that?" 

"Because it wasn't Cherelle that I married, it was you. I don't care what it says on that piece of paper, it was you and me in that courtroom. But if we drag that paper out and show it to a judge, they're going to say it wasn't real, it wasn't legal. They're going to throw the marriage out, but it won't be me and Cherelle that they just annulled \-- it'll be me and you. I don't want that. I'd rather keep the marriage between us." 

I looked at the ring on my left hand. After long speculation, the gossips at the station had concluded that Sandburg and I must have held a private ceremony, outside of the law. But apparently Sandburg wanted to hold on to the legality of our union as long as possible. I couldn't deny him that. 

"Jim, do you want to hold her?" 

"I . . . " I gulped. "Um . . ." 

"Here, just bend your arm -- gotta support her head, you know." 

"Yes, Sandburg, I do know how to hold a baby. I just . . ." *Just don't want to get too attached to her.* I stared down at the little squirming bundle. My daughter, in some strange sense. My daughter and Sandburg's. "She's so small," I whispered in fascination. "She hardly weighs a thing." 

"Seven pounds yesterday, man. She's doing great!" 

I bent down to breathe in the scent of her, so different from a grown person. Her eyes met mine for a moment. "She has blue eyes." 

"They'll probably turn brown in a few weeks. I asked, and there were no blue-eyed people in Cherelle's family tree over the past four generations. I figure my main contribution will be in the hair department. This girl is going to have beautiful hair." 

I laughed, picturing long glossy curls, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Mama Sutterly approaching. My heart sank. 

Blair lifted the baby from my arms. "Here you go, angel, you want to see your Grandma?" And just like that, he handed her over. 

Mama Sutterly folded the baby close to her and leaned over to give Blair a peck on the cheek. "How you doin', Blair?" 

"I'm fine, Mama. Angela's wide awake today." 

"Yeah?" Mama tickled the baby's chin. "You ready to go home today, baby?" 

The baby laughed, a strange thin cry. 

"You will call me, right?" Blair insisted. "Anytime you need a babysitter. And I'll send you a check every month -- I only get paid once a month -- is that okay?" 

"Blair, honey, we already talked about this. Angie and me'll be just fine like we are. You put that money into a trust fund, so we can send her to a nice college when she grows up. I want her to get a degree just like her daddy." 

"How about a compromise, then? I'll send money to you every other month, and the rest of the time it goes into the fund." 

Mama sighed and consulted the baby. "What do you think, sweetie?" 

Angela sighed and her eyelids drooped closed. 

"I guess she thinks it's a good idea," Mama smiled. Her glance slid over me and returned quickly to Blair. She was very uncomfortable around me, and she frowned at any reminder that Blair was in an 'ungodly' relationship. But most of the time, she and Blair seemed to get along well, which was a good thing for the baby's sake. 

"All right," said Blair. "I'll call you tomorrow and see how she's settling in. If you need anything -- _anything_ \-- call me and I'll bring it to you." 

Mama laughed. "Blair, honey, it's not like I never had a baby in the house before. Angie is going to be just fine." 

"Do you need a ride home?" I asked impulsively. 

"That's all right, Detective, we'll be fine on the bus. I've got my youngest daughter with me, and we don't want to crowd you." She started to turn away, then looked back at us. "Angela will always be a beautiful gift to me. The Lord took away my Cherelle because it was her time. Then he sent an angel in her place to save _your_ lives. And out of all of it came Angela. This little baby will always be loved, you can be certain of that." 

So we watched as she went through the paperwork and got all the instructions from the doctors. And we stood on the front steps of the hospital and looked on as our daughter was carried away from us. As the bus pulled away from the curb, the sunlight reflecting off the cars in the parking lot made my eyes sting. 

Blair's arm came around my waist. "It's okay, man. Everything will be all right." 

"Ah, Blair," I breathed, clinging to his warmth. "I'm sorry I got you into this mess." 

"Don't say that, Jim. If it weren't for this 'mess,' you and I wouldn't be together. And that's gotta be worth any amount of trouble." 

I looked down at my husband. "For better or worse, huh?" 

"For whatever comes our way, man. Long as we're together, we can handle it." 

I didn't care that it was a public place; I leaned down to capture his lips with mine. "Forever," I breathed into his mouth, and he breathed it back to me. 

**END**  
September 1998 - January 1999 


End file.
